Second Time Lucky (Club Decadence Book 5)

by Maddie Taylor

  Hatred for him burned hot inside her. This was a new low for him. All along, he’d been a pimp, a flesh peddler, a drug dealing, gunrunning, self-absorbed, vile, contemptuous criminal, but this. The explosions and subsequent inferno were his doing, she knew this, as sure as she knew he’d slid down another rung on the ladder to Hell and become a mass murderer, an arsonist, a domestic terrorist in order to exact his revenge against Rossi. She knew this because she had heard him devise the entire thing.

  When Victor hauled her inside the Southtown hovel two mornings ago, she’d felt defeated, as if a cold hard fist, Victor’s fist, had a grip on her spirit, choking off her will to fight anymore. Granted, the gun he jabbed into her ribs had gone a long way in securing her cooperation. Even so, he’d seen the need to tie her to a straight back chair as soon as they arrived.

  “Merely taking precautions until we get you to our new home,” he’d murmured.

  He’d proceeded to restrain her with stiff ropes, hands behind her back, ankles tied to the front chair legs, she’d looked around the dump she’d been brought to. Resembling a safe house in a low budget cop show with its Spartan furnishings, stale air, lingering odor of smelly cigars, and take out trash strewn everywhere. She had been unable to rouse enough interest to care even when a rat scurried across the floor at one point. The only emotion that remained—other than hatred—was her desire for vengeance, but like a dying ember, it flickered and sputtered, at risk of going out. Victor thwarted her at every turn, what was the point of trying anymore?

  After testing the ropes at her wrists and ankles one more time, he secured a cloth gag in her mouth. “You’ve slipped through my grasp too many times to trust you. It would put a damper on my plans for you, and I have so many. It’s going to be like the old days, mi corazón, when we had us some fun.” He ran his hand along her cheek, laughing when she recoiled at his touch.

  When he rose and stood smiling down at her in all of his arrogance, she tried to communicate her hatred with her eyes. Her heart. The words sent a shiver down her spine. He’d said the same thing before he shot her at the clinic. Victor clearly had a fucked up concept of love.

  Dismissively, he’d patted her cheek. His smile fading as he walked to the table nearby and stopped beside his uncle Esteban, the cartel kingpin. His lieutenants surrounded him. At seventy, Mara wondered how much power the old man held especially when all eyes turned to Victor, who gestured to a diagram pinned to the wall.

  “The bombs, six in all, will be placed here and here.”

  Bombs. Like flames to tinder, the word sparked her interest. Her ears perked up as she tried to listen discreetly to their conversation.

  As Victor spoke, he pointed to the schematic. It looked like a multi-story building, gesturing to several areas marked with red x’s, stairwells and lower level locations as far as she could tell.

  “We’ll take out both sets of elevators as well. Once we’ve eliminated their escape from below, our men will be waiting on the roof. They’ll be trapped like rats on a sinking ship,” he continued spitefully, “except their ship will be engulfed in a sea of fire with no means of escape. If they try, we’ll take them out one by one.”

  He’d cackled gleefully, almost maniacally, making Mara shiver. Graphic images of the intended destruction flooded her brain as turbulent emotions roiled inside her. Shock, anger, and fear most of all. Fear for Sean and his friends.

  Since they were ignoring her, she dropped any pretense of stealth. Using every ounce of energy she had left, she concentrated on absorbing every detail, which wasn’t easy because he spoke in Spanish.

  Victor flipped over a stack of photographs, sliding them across the table haphazardly as he called each target’s name. She couldn’t see the pictures lying flat on the table, but an image of each man came to mind. “Jonas Mitchell and Antonio Minelli, “Lil T” as they call him, Tio Esteban, these are the two cabrónes who were instrumental in taking out the compound in Laredo and killing Hector.”

  “Hector, mi hijo.” The old man’s grief for his boy was clear in his tremulous voice. As was his resolve when he added, “They deserve to die a slow painful death.”

  Victor flipped over three more photos. “Rick Spencer was involved in the slaughter at Del Rio early on. Dexter Russell took out Luis Lopez. Sean O’Brien blew up the warehouse two weeks ago injuring a half dozen men. And Captain Tony Rossi, their fearless leader, I truly regret not being able to take out this cabrón myself, but seeing them burn together will have to suffice.” This last was spewed with such malice, that a cold chill shot down her spine making her shudder.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t play an active role, Victor,” Esteban suggested. “As you take over for me, you are becoming more valuable to the organization. If you fall, we all do.”

  “It cannot be helped, Tio. Having sent so many back across the border to safety, we are a skeleton crew at best.”

  “I agree, Victor,” Tomas agreed. “As our leader, you must stay safe. We wouldn’t send Tio Esteban into such a dangerous situation. Hector was my friend. I’ll happily take your place to see these bastards pay.”

  The seven men around the table all nodded, voicing their similar opinions until Victor agreed.

  “My friends and family, soon we’ll be free of the Rossi menace. Our reward will be a return to business as usual, but we won’t stop there. No, we’ll keep going, growing until the Mendoza family operation is bigger than ever before and one hundred times more lucrative.”

  “You are that confident of this plan’s success, nephew?”

  “Absolutely, Tio, Rossi will be neutralized, one hundred percent.”

  “Bueno.” The old kingpin approved. “Complete this mission and the family business is yours. I’m too old for this shit.”

  The men chuckled, congratulating Victor, some slapping him on the back in, to what Mara hoped was a premature celebration. As she watched and listen to them plot Sean’s team’s demise, she felt the defeatism inside her change to determination. She had to find a way to warn Sean to alert him to the danger and thwart Victor’s plan. She didn’t know how, but she’d wait and watch, biding her time until an opportunity arose.

  Glass exploding overhead snapped Mara back to the present as another story of the high rise was consumed by the fire. It had claimed all but the topmost floors. It was merely a matter of time before the entire structure was torched.

  It might be too late for her friends, but she could stop Victor. That was why she’d followed him here today, despite the pain in her leg. She’d borne the agony for one reason alone, to put an end to him at long last. Mara had come downtown on a hunch, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stay away and would want to witness his plan come to fruition. That she’d been right showed how well she knew him and his unrivaled arrogance. He’d made her task easier by coming to gloat, and how convenient that he’d worn his brilliant white hat, which stood out like a beacon in the darkness.

  Reaching behind her, she palmed the grip of the gun tucked inside her waistband and eased it out. She looked down at the weapon, smuggled from Jonas’ condo. A niggling sense of shame twanged inside at the betrayal of her friends’ trust. She tamped it down though, pushing it aside, compartmentalizing. Later, much, much later, she’d think about adding arms thief to her list of crimes. A nominal offense surely, considering she was about to commit murder.

  * * * * *

  Rooted to the spot, Sean watched helplessly as the blaze lit up the night sky. From two blocks away and twenty stories up, he was powerless to help. Rage, fear, dread, guilt, and a slew of other volatile emotions vied for dominance within him. Guilt edged out front, as he thought of his friends gathered for the pre-mission rundown, where he should have been. He’d gone off the grid for the last few days, searching for Mara—a useless, waste of time when she’d become an expert at disappearing—only returning in the nick of time to rejoin the team and carry out his role for the mission tonight. Yet another exercise in futility.

  Their mission, to
break up the underage slave auction for which Victor and his minions had been leaving a trail of bread crumbs to for weeks, was completely bogus. Fucking Mendozas! It was obviously a diversion for the real event.

  Cap, Jonas, Rick, Dex, Lil T and Jack in surveillance, all of them would have been there, possibly others. He sent up a silent but no less fervent entreaty that they’d had enough time to escape.

  “No answer,” Dano said from behind him. He walked to the windows and stood beside Sean. “Damn. It’s fully engulfed. We’ve got to do something.”

  “What?” Sean fired back. “The flames are near the roof.”

  “Has the chopper taken off?”

  He squinted, trying to focus through the smoke. “I can’t tell. Glasses,” he barked, holding out his hand to the man packing the gear behind him. In a second, he slapped a pair of high-powered night vision binoculars into his palm. Sean immediately scanned the rooftop of the burning building. “Dammit. It’s still there.”

  He scanned down to street level, zooming in on the EMS vehicles, searching for familiar faces or god forbid casualties. It was mayhem, however. “I can’t see shit with the crowd of gawkers down there.” He kept scanning south. “Maybe they evacuated through the crosswalk to the Park Tower.”

  Locating the building next door, he cut to the area in front. Scanning the entrance and the darkened street, he switched on the digital zoom and the instafocus feature to enhance the image. Two men standing in the middle of the street caught his eye. One wore a familiar white fedora.

  Startled, he lifted his head a fraction, his eyes shifting to Dano. “It’s Mendoza.”

  “Motherfucker! Returning to the scene of the crime.”

  “More like he stayed to check out his handiwork first hand. Call SAPD dispatch, Dano. There are at least a dozen units down there already. Surely someone can arrest this asshole.”

  A cell rang in the background.

  “It’s Cap, bud. They’re out. All accounted for and no injuries, thank god!”

  Like Dano, relief washed through him.

  Sean went back to scanning. As he locked onto Mendoza again, his mouth suddenly went slack and he blinked, disbelieving his own eyes as Victor crumpled to the ground. “No fuckin’ way,” he whispered as he zoomed out to get the entire area in view. The man at his side, a muscle man from the looks of him, also lay on the ground motionless.

  “Shots fired, Sean, street level,” Dano announced.

  “I know, I’ve got it in my sights. Two down, Victor Mendoza’s one of them. But I can’t locate the shooter.”

  Moving side to side, he made a thorough sweep of the street, searching. He spotted a lone figure and paused.

  “It can’t be,” he uttered in shocked disbelief.

  Adjusting the focus, he zoomed in on the woman with the long brown hair. She was holding a gun in a familiar two fisted grip on Mendoza and his thug. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew without a doubt who she was. His glasses locked on her tight, nonetheless, until she dropped her arms and her pale face, stricken with raw emotion, came into view.

  “Nightingale,” he whispered. “What have you done?”

  * * * * *

  Opening eyes she hadn’t realized she’d closed as she’d fired, Mara looked past the rear sights of her gun to where Victor and his bodyguard had stood only seconds ago. She looked down. They both lay motionless on the asphalt. Temporarily frozen, Mara stared at them stunned at what she’d done. As if made of lead, her arms fell limply to her sides, the empty gun hanging loose in her slackened hand.

  Breaking glass across the street drew her attention. She turned, remembering Lexie. She searched the empty lobby, but could only see blown out windows and the darkness beyond. Had she taken cover, or was she lying injured and bleeding somewhere amid the debris? Mara stepped forward, stopping abruptly, unsure what to do as sirens wailed in the distance.

  The police would surely take care of Lexie, but her conscience countered, what if they were delayed, or missed her god forbid? She could die. Her frazzled mind warred over how to proceed, right versus wrong, friendship and compassion over self-preservation.

  Not having anything left to fight for, selfishness took a back seat. She was an experienced trauma nurse and if Lexie was wounded, time was crucial. Besides, she had an obligation…no, a duty to help her friend.

  Decided, she took another lurching step forward, doing the right thing for a change. Movement up ahead made her pause. A large, hulking form rose from the floor. Squinting through the haze of smoke, she saw it was Lil T and he was helping Lexie to her feet. Relief swept through her as her befuddled brain assimilated the facts. T and Lexie must have escaped the burning building next door. It was the only explanation. If they had, then maybe others had too. Hope swelled within her as she searched the blackness behind them. It was still, however.

  Mara’s gaze met Lexie’s. She watched as Lexie’s eyes shifted, darting up the street, then down briefly to where Victor and his man lay. When they cut back, her face bore an odd expression, a strange mix of shock, concern and understanding—yes, understanding. Of all people, Lexie, who had been Victor’s victim too, would understand. However, she shouldn’t be surprised by what Mara had done. Lexie knew her from way back, long before San Antonio, before Sean, during a time she’d tried desperately to forget, in a past she couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she’d tried.

  The sirens wail grew louder, closing in. Only now did she feel free to go. She didn’t spare Victor a glance as with a pronounced limp, her injured leg throbbing in pain, she staggered slowly down the street. At the entrance to the alley, she glanced back at the blaze lighting up the night sky. Damned she might be for her sins, if she believed in the hell that Victor so richly deserved, conversely there must be a heaven. She sent up a prayer for the safety of her old friends, and her beloved Sean.

  Not lingering a second more, she retraced her steps, painfully shuffling down the alley by which she’d come. It was time to go. Where? She didn’t know. To what end, she had no idea.

  Chapter Twenty

  Unable to watch anymore, her hand shook as she thumbed the remote to the crappy 19-inch TV. The screen went black as did the dingy motel room, which was a blessing really. It was a dump, but all she could afford. She sat in the dark room, the only light coming from the crack in the heavy drape that flapped as the noisy A/C unit blew continuous frigid air. Foolishly, she thought turning off the news would bring a moments peace, but the awful noises and images persisted in her mind. Covering her ears didn’t block the echoes of the gunshots or the sirens wail. And closing her eyes didn’t purge the picture of herself plastered all over the eleven o’clock news, side by side with her victims, both Victor and Manolo Vasquez, aka Tomas Diaz, the undercover agent who’d been posing as a Mendoza bodyguard for the past six months.

  As long as she lived, she’d never forget the resistance of the trigger, the resounding crack as the bullet left the chamber, the smell of heated steel or the jolt the recoil sent up her arm as she fired. The sight of both men on the ground had first stunned then horrified her. Then she’d gone numb, emotionless, ice cold.

  It was shock, she realized hours later, when lucidity returned and the reality of what she’d done set in. She’d gone downtown with one purpose in mind—killing Victor Mendoza. But the lone bullet she intended to fire, turned out to be four when she had unknowingly emptied the clip. Now, rather than being responsible for the death of one deserving criminal, the life of an innocent man hung in the balance, the culpability resting squarely on her shoulders. She was defending Lexie, but she doubted a jury would buy that, especially when there was video.

  It was grainy and dark, her face in shadows, thank goodness, but it was clearly her. The news reports had replayed it repeatedly, enough that it was seared into her brain, playing in slow motion in her head, in a perpetual loop.

  Heartsick, she flopped back on the lumpy bed as her thoughts centered on Tomas Diaz. She had him to thank for escaping Victor’s i
mprisonment that morning. Thinking him an incompetent thug who had stupidly left the window unlocked, her purse on the table, loaded gun inside and then left her alone, he’d actually been allowing her to escape. How ironic she returned the favor by shooting him down in cold blood.

  Nausea roiled and she flew to the bathroom. As she hung limply over the toilet as bitter bile purged from her system, she knew she was well and truly screwed.

  Long moments later, she pulled herself from the floor. Weakly, she rinsed her mouth and staggered out of the bathroom trying to figure out what came next. Turning herself in seemed the only option. At least she’d be done with it all. Prison couldn’t be much worse than real life. She’d get three hots and a cot as they say, and a girlfriend named Big Bertha.

  Shaking off thoughts of being someone’s prison bitch, she began to pace, unable to sit still. She was so fucked. Her eighty-seven dollars wouldn’t last long. Only two more nights at the flea bag, hole in the wall, piece of crap, $29.99 per night, bargain basement, Laredo motel. What then? Thinking to flee to Mexico, she’d come here, closest to the border. But she had no passport, and even if she did, couldn’t use it—they’d be looking for her. She could sneak across. The border patrol probably didn’t see much illegal immigration in the opposite direction. She needed more money. Maybe she could hustle a few games of pool for quick cash. It had been several years though, and her game was rusty. The obvious option was out. She’d promised herself she’d die before she’d ever turn another trick or play dominatrix ever again. Which right about now seemed a real possibility, Texas being a capital punishment state after all.

  Think, Mara.

  Lexie’s image came to mind, and Joanna’s. She discarded them as an option. They were her friends and she cared for them too much to make them accomplices after the fact, or aiders and abettors, or whatever the charge was for helping a fugitive flee justice.