by Kaylea Cross
Everything was happening too fast.
Rough hands grabbed him from behind. Shoved him flat on his stomach and wrenched his arms behind him. Someone flipped him over onto his back. He fought to breathe, stared up at the shadowy shapes converging around him. Blocking out the light.
One man crouched next to him, triumph in his dark eyes. He said something that Fernando didn’t catch.
Everything was fading now. His vision blurred, grew dark. The pain began to fade. He barely felt them poking and prodding as they tried to keep him alive.
It was better this way. Better for his family if he died.
A searing bolt of grief speared through him as he thought of his children. Of the empire they would inherit one day.
His body went limp. His eyes bulging as his lungs stopped working. But his mind kept going for a few seconds.
Enough time for him to be grateful that at least the cartel wouldn’t die with him. Because contrary to what people thought, he wasn’t the head.
No. So even as he lay dying on the sidewalk in this tiny, remote village, el Escorpion was still very much alive.
Chapter Twenty-One
Seated next to Brock’s hospital bed, Victoria curled her fingers around his, her heart aching at what he’d been through. She wished she could make all of this go away, heal him with her touch, but of course that was impossible.
Right now, he was out cold from whatever medication they’d put into his IV an hour ago and she was glad he was getting some sleep and no longer in pain. His body needed the reprieve. He was a mess.
Both his eyes were completely swollen shut now, the lids shiny and deep purple. The jagged scar across his nose and upper cheek looked sore as hell with all the stitches holding his skin together.
His whole chest and ribs were a mass of welts and bruises. She hadn’t seen his wrists without the bandages, but she already knew what they would look like because hers had been the same. It would take weeks for him to heal, even if it turned out he didn’t need surgery for his shoulder.
At least the evil son of a bitch responsible for the damage was dead. Well, him and Nieto. It wouldn’t make Brock heal any faster, but it would help him mentally moving forward. He was strong. She wasn’t worried about him recovering from this, she just wished she could be there for him while he did.
He still had some dried blood on his face and chest. She hated seeing it on his skin.
She got a warm washcloth and a towel from the washroom and came back to him. This was stolen time they shouldn’t have had together. She wanted to milk every second of it for all it was worth.
Careful not to wake him, she started on his face, gently washing the blood from his cheeks and chin. Down his throat where his pulse beat slow and steady.
When she reached his chest, he stirred. She froze, the washcloth poised an inch above his skin. He turned his head toward her slightly, his left eye opening a millimeter or two. “Sponge bath time?” he rasped out, his voice hopeful.
She laughed softly. “Only if you behave. Sorry I woke you.”
“No. I wouldn’t want to sleep through this.”
With a wry grin she resumed cleaning him, using light pressure over his bruises. “I wish I could kiss each of these better.”
“I’m down with that. Couldn’t hurt to try.”
She bent and touched her lips to the welt at the top of his left pec, then raised her head to look at him. “How’s that. Any better?”
He pursed his lips, his brow furrowing. “Not sure. Do it again.”
She did. Twice. And added a few kisses to a neighboring welt for good measure. She looked up. “Well?”
“Think it’s working. Keep going.”
Smiling now, she did, working her way across his chest with light kisses as she washed the rest of the blood away. “There.” Easing up, she pressed her lips to his and sat back. “How do you feel?” she asked, serious this time.
“I’m okay.”
It broke her heart how strong he was. “Are the pain meds still working?”
“Not really.”
“Your ribs bothering you the most?”
“And my right shoulder. Freezing’s starting to wear off on my face, too.” He wiggled his nose around.
“Stop that.”
“It’s itchy.”
“Where?”
“The tip.”
She carefully scratched it.
“Oh, yeah, that’s good,” he groaned. “And the left side of my neck, too.”
She scratched that one too. “You’re high maintenance.”
He laughed, then winced. “Nope. No laughing.”
“Sorry.” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, used the cloth on a streak of dried blood there. “I’ll wash your hair later. You hungry now? Thirsty?”
“Yeah, both.”
He couldn’t use his right arm and shouldn’t be moving the left one either until the orthopedic surgeon had checked everything over. “Hang on.” She grabbed the cup of water from the little stand beside the bed, angled the straw into his mouth. “Your options for breakfast are some cut up fruit, scrambled eggs, and a piece of toast. What do you feel like?”
“All of it.”
She forked up some fruit. “Here’s some pineapple.”
His mouth stretched into a grin as he chewed. “I could get used to this. You hand feeding me while I lie in bed.”
“I’ll bet you could.” And so could she. She loved being able to take care of him when he needed her.
But it wasn’t going to last. They weren’t meant to be.
Her heart lurched. Threatened to turn to ash in her chest.
She fed him his breakfast until it was gone, then gave him more water to finish. When she turned back he was wiggling the outstretched fingers of his left hand toward her. She took his hand, lowered it to the bed so he wouldn’t move his wrist. She remembered how much hers had hurt.
“How long do we have left?” he asked.
The ache in her heart intensified. “Not sure. I’m kind of on borrowed time here. They want to get me back to D.C.”
“Yeah.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m real glad you were here, though.”
Everything they hadn’t said to each other swirled in the air between them. Making her pulse pound in desperation. “Me too.”
Before she could say anything else, a light tap on the door made her twist around. Commander Taggart stepped inside. “How’s our boy doing?”
“He ate some breakfast.”
“That’s good.” He strode over to the other side of the bed, gripped the railing as he peered down at Brock. “Rest of the boys are all down in the waiting room. I told them no visitors until after you got some sleep. And I told Maka and Granger they’re banned until further notice.”
One side of Brock’s mouth kicked up. “Bet they didn’t like that.”
“Nope. Now they’re both pouting.” He put his hands in his pockets. “So. Something big just happened.”
Victoria turned her full attention to him. “What?”
“Mexican SF got el Escorpion. He’s dead.”
The news was such a shock Victoria could only stare at him. Was it possible? “Who was it?”
“Guy named Fernando Diaz.”
Her brow furrowed as she tried to place the name. She’d come across someone named Diaz rumored to be part of the cartel back when she had done her research for her second book. He hadn’t seemed to be all that important in the chain of command she had uncovered, though. Was it the same man?
“That’s good news,” Brock said.
Taggart nodded. “And there’s more. Sanchez was arrested too. He’s already admitted to being one of Ruiz’s, and now he’s working for Montoya. He gave them a possible location on Montoya. Some codenamed location Ruiz used to use. If they can figure out the location, they’re going after him tonight.”
At his words, Victoria’s pulse thudded. “What’s the code name?”
Maybe it was the tension i
n her voice, but Taggart looked at her sharply. He considered her a moment, then answered. “Can’t remember. Something about a rattlesnake in Spanish.”
Rattlesnake? She stared at him, the word tweaking something in her memory. It was familiar. She remembered learning something important about it during her research for her second book. Something that related to a place. Dammit, why couldn’t she remember?
“What is it?” Brock asked.
“My files. I need to access my files online.” She turned to Taggart. “I need a laptop.”
“I’ll get one. Wait here.”
She got up and paced as he left. She thought best on her feet.
“What’s going on?” Brock asked.
“I recognize the rattlesnake bit.” Wait. She stopped. “You read my second book. Do you remember it being in there?”
His expression brightened. “Yeah. Shit, it was only mentioned once, and kind of in passing.” He frowned, thinking. “What did it say?”
She nodded and waved her hand in a circle in encouragement for him to keep pulling on that thread. “It’s a place. The name of a place. Something in Spanish, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He frowned. “Damn, what the hell was it again?”
She wracked her brain along with him. Snake head? Fangs? Venom? That was the literal translation for the Veneno cartel. Venom.
She made a sound of frustration, grabbed handfuls of her hair. “God, why can’t I remember it?” Montoya might be headed there now. If she could remember what the hell it was called, maybe she could remember where it was and find it on the map. Give the team a location so they could get a jump on him.
She paced for another few minutes, then dropped into the chair beside Brock’s bed. She took his hand, kept thinking, but the exact wording eluded her.
At last Taggart came back in, carrying a laptop. “This thing’s pretty ancient,” he told her, setting it up on the rolling table next to Brock’s bed and plugging it in for her, “but they said it works and the connection’s decent.”
Victoria went right to work, going to the website where her files were stored. The network wasn’t secure by any means, but she didn’t care if anyone knew she was accessing her old files. All that mattered right now was finding Montoya before he melted away someplace.
It took her three tries to get the password right. Finally, she was in.
She clicked on the third file marked Notes, urgency thrumming through her. Taggart and Brock watched her every move as she scrolled through the documents stored in the file. Then she came to the one named Locations.
“Bingo,” she murmured, and opened it. Her heart beat faster and faster as she skimmed the contents, then skipped once.
There. There it was.
“Cola de serpiente de cascabel?” she said, looking up at Taggart for confirmation.
Surprise flashed in his aqua eyes. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Holy shit. Her heart was pounding. This might mean the end of Montoya. “It means tail of the rattlesnake. It’s named for a rock formation that looks like the rattles on a snake’s tail.”
His posture tensed, his expression intensifying. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes. In the middle of Chihuahua. Here.” She clicked on the link to a map she had included, pointed to the spot with her finger.
Taggart held up a finger and whipped out his phone. “Get us the best satellite images of Chihuahua you’ve got,” he said to whomever he’d called. “I’m bringing Victoria Gomez into HQ right now. I think we might have a target location for Montoya.”
****
So Nieto and el Escorpion were both dead.
Juan couldn’t help but smile to himself as he drove the Jeep behind the rock formation and killed the engine. Shaped like the end of a rattlesnake’s tail, it would hide him until he left in the morning. Ruiz had used this place in the past, bringing only his most trusted men here. Now that he was in prison, Juan was the only one to use it.
With all of his rivals either dead or behind bars, there was no one left to stand in his way. The remnants of the cartel would be in chaos. Using Ruiz’s former network, he would step in and take control. Everyone would answer to him. He would kill anyone who challenged or posed a threat to him.
He was going to be fucking rich beyond his wildest dreams.
The sun was just about to set over the ridge to the west. He gazed around the vast emptiness surrounding him, taking a deep breath of the dry, hot air. The chirp of chapulines was the only sound in the quiet. Nobody around for miles.
He shifted the backpack on his shoulder as he walked toward the small wooden cabin. Inside he would have a hot meal, enjoy the bottle of whiskey he’d brought and the cigars Ruiz always stocked in all of his places, even out here. He dropped his bag inside, grabbed the shovel from beside the door and walked back out into the sunset.
Through a contact at the prison, Ruiz had worked his network to give Juan a map showing the location where he’d buried emergency cash reserves on the property. Enough money to buy whatever and whoever he needed to stay off grid while he planned his next move.
Reaching the approximate spot marked on the map he pulled from his pocket, he stabbed the blade of his shovel into the dry earth and jammed a foot down on it. In all, there was over twenty million U.S. dollars buried out here. It would go a long way in aiding him on the coming takeover.
Juan whistled to himself as he dug, not minding the physical work, more at ease than he had been in years. For the first time in forever, he had a whole night to himself in a place he could let his guard down and truly relax.
Tonight, he would celebrate all his victories. Tomorrow, he would begin taking what was his.
****
Montoya had no idea he wasn’t alone out here. Or that he had just walked through the crosshairs of a sniper rifle.
Stretched out in supported prone position, high up on the ridge overlooking the small valley and the rock formation that marked the location of Ruiz’s old hideout, Gabe tightened the focus on the sight of his weapon.
He and Colebrook were hidden behind a cluster of boulders camouflaged by clumps of sagebrush. Taggart was waiting a hundred yards down the slope behind them with the rest of the command staff, while the Mexican SF team moved into the valley on foot to take Montoya.
The goddamn evil and twisted excuse for a man who had betrayed Oceane, killed her mother, and almost killed Freeman’s fiancée, Rowan. Gabe’s orders were to provide recon and shoot Montoya if he tried to escape before the Mexican forces arrived. But Gabe was interpreting that last part loosely.
If he got a clear shot on Montoya period, the SF team’s assault wouldn’t be necessary.
Once again, Victoria had come through with an awesome piece of intel and they’d been able to make it here within hours of her showing them the location on a satellite map. Without her, Montoya might have slipped away and disappeared off the radar for good.
Lying prone beside Gabe, propped up on his elbows, Colebrook peered through his spotting scope. “He’s moving. Five-hundred-twenty yards.”
“Got him.” Gabe adjusted his aim, tracked Montoya’s movement through the high-powered scope. The cabin gave him just enough protection that Gabe didn’t have a clear shot, only the back of Montoya’s right arm and leg visible as he dug.
Gabe zeroed in on him and waited.
Waiting was his specialty. He could wait hours in this position without moving. Days, if necessary. This asshole had zero idea what was going on as he dug up what appeared to be a duffel full of what was no doubt cash, tossed it aside and moved a dozen paces to the right to dig again.
“Damn. How much cash you think they’ve got buried out here?” Colebrook murmured.
“Dunno.” Don’t care. One way or another, Montoya wasn’t walking out of here tonight.
His target was currently more than five football field lengths away but Gabe had made shots at more than twice that distance. The angle was perfect. The air was dry
and the wind light. All he needed was for Montoya to move a couple more steps to his right.
“SF team’s in position at the south end of the valley,” Colebrook murmured.
Gabe noted it but didn’t respond, all his attention on the crosshairs of his rifle as he cradled the buttstock snug against his shoulder.
Montoya took a step to his right.
Gabe’s breathing was slow and steady, his heart rate calm, finger curled around the trigger. He blocked out all thoughts of Oceane and his hatred for the piece of shit in his crosshairs, pretended this was just like every other target, even though it wasn’t.
Montoya took another step to the right. He bent to adjust something on the shovel, then turned and began carrying one of the bags back toward the rock formation where he’d parked his vehicle. One might even argue he was about to make his escape.
It was goddamn perfect.
“Be advised, target is moving back toward vehicle,” Colebrook said over their comms.
“Copy that,” Taggart replied, then added, “He doesn’t leave here.”
Oh, he won’t. Gabe remained locked on his unsuspecting target, mentally coaxing him along. One more step. Just take one more step for me.
Montoya did.
He straightened and turned slightly, unknowingly facing Gabe. Giving him a full center mass target.
Gabe adjusted his aim ever so slightly. Exhaled, letting the air out of his lungs. And then he squeezed the trigger.
The rifle’s report echoed throughout the desolate landscape an instant before the bullet found its mark. Montoya jerked and collapsed to the ground as it tore through his body. Hitting him in the lower part of his thoracic spine rather than through the heart or lungs.
“Hit, lower center mass,” Colebrook said.
Gabe paused only long enough to watch Montoya flop painfully to his belly and begin dragging himself across the ground toward cover, his paralyzed legs trailing behind him.
Colebrook immediately began issuing adjustments for another shot.
