ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  Shea was as pale as the moonlight had been that night by the pool. She was staring at de Cortez in stunned shock, and Chance's heart twisted inside him at her pain. That it was his fault she was finding out this way made him ache more than all the blows together had.

  "My God, Paul—"

  "Just shut up," de Cortez snapped.

  "What are you—"

  "You little fool!" de Cortez spat out, cutting her off. "Where do you think all that money came from? You think I slaved in some field somewhere for the money I sent you? The money that sent you to that fancy Malibu school?"

  "No," she whispered, shaking her head.

  "I thought you were different. You were quiet, you knew your place. It's the only reason I didn't make our beloved—" he drew out the word venomously "—mother pay for her disloyalty to my father then. You needed her to take care of you … so I spared her."

  "Oh, God."

  "But now I find you're no better than your mother, puta! Worse! She only married an Anglo, but you, you spread your legs for a cop!"

  "She was your mother, too," Shea moaned.

  "Ha! I spit on her. She got what she deserved, just as your father did! Bastard, always ordering me, telling me what to do. No one tells me what to do."

  Shea was crumbling, Chance could see it, the shock of his deceit and the realization of her brother's were crashing in on her. She was trembling violently. Desperately he tried to divert de Cortez's attack.

  "So you killed him."

  The man whirled, staring. After a moment, he laughed. "So, you figured that out, did you? Perhaps I underestimated you a little, pig."

  Chance heard Shea's cry but made himself ignore it. "It wasn't that tough. Once I found out that Micky Lopez was Pedro Escobar's cousin, it wasn't too hard to figure out who the shooter was. Especially when I found out you flew here two days before, not the day of his funeral like everyone thought. You set him up, didn't you? You had someone call him, knowing he'd come."

  "Paul, no!"

  He spun back around. "Quiet, bitch! Haven't you done enough? Your old man got what was coming to him." He laughed harshly. "Along with our sainted mother."

  Chance risked a glance at Shea. She was so white it frightened him, her eyes dark and bruised looking in her waxen face. But he had to keep de Cortez going, had to keep him here until Quisto and the others made their move.

  "And you came back before she died, too, didn't you? The day before. Did you make her take the pills?"

  "No. She did that herself, after I told her the truth about how that pendejo she married died. As if anyone could replace my father!"

  "You mean after she realized her own son had murdered her husband," Chance ground out.

  "Oh, God, the note … you're the demon!"

  Chance heard Shea moan, saw her shake her head slowly back and forth, like a creature with a mortal wound. Oh, God, songbird, I'm sorry. So damned sorry. I knew it would be hell when it came apart, but I never expected you to have to go through it like this.

  He wished he knew what time it was. But it didn't matter, he knew it was running out. The man would never have admitted any of this if he hadn't planned to kill him. As if he'd read Chance's thoughts, de Cortez lifted his wrist and looked at his elegant watch.

  "Oh, yes, pig, I know what's happening, and when."

  Chance's last hope evaporated. If de Cortez knew the police were on their way, he had no reason to wait and every reason to hurry.

  "I have nothing to lose, have I? So we're going to have a little execution, right here and now."

  He reached inside his jacket and drew out a chrome automatic pistol. Chance heard Shea's gasp as de Cortez walked over and aimed it at Chance's head.

  "Paul, no! You can't!" Shea moved, but the bookends grabbed her, holding her back.

  "He'll do it, Shea," Chance said hoarsely. "Get out of here."

  "No! No, you can't just kill him!"

  "You think not?" He dug the barrel of the gun into Chance's ear. "He is a pig and he will die like one."

  Chance heard him work the slide on the automatic to pop a round into the chamber. Then he felt de Cortez's hand on the back of his neck, forcing his head down. He knew what was coming, but all he could think about was Shea. He knew what a shot of that caliber to the head was going to look like, and he couldn't stand for her to see him die like that. He strained to lift his head and look at de Cortez.

  "She's your sister," Chance whispered, his fear for Shea clear in his voice. "Don't make her watch this."

  "Why not?" de Cortez spat out. "It's her fault that you got this close. She slept with you, she can watch you die."

  "No, damn it! Please, don't do that to her!"

  "How gallant! You will beg for her, but not for yourself? If only I had more time, it might be interesting to see just how far you would go for the little bitch. But as it is, I have my own plans for her. Plans that befit the traitor she is."

  Shea sank down to the floor. The bookends let her go, realizing she was beyond anything more. They turned their attention to de Cortez, watching avidly, waiting. As if wishing to deprive them of a pleasure he wanted to keep to himself, de Cortez ordered them out.

  "Make sure all of our guests received our warning." They went reluctantly.

  Chance felt the death grip tighten around his neck as de Cortez once more tried to push his head down. He resisted, not sure why, except that he didn't want to die cowering in front of this piece of slime. The pressure increased; he pushed back.

  He heard Shea make a sound, a choking, wounded sound that ripped at a heart he'd thought too numb to feel anything. He forced himself up against de Cortez's hand, lifting himself until he could see her. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and stunned, her arms wrapped around herself as she huddled in the corner of the room.

  Summoning every bit of nerve he had left, he schooled his expression to calm. Slowly he let his mouth quirk into the crooked grin that made her laugh so. And as she stared at him in shock, he winked, broadly, lovingly.

  Somewhere outside of this tiny space in the world, a door slammed. Paul de Cortez swore viciously. Chance felt the hand on his neck tighten fiercely, shoving him down with the full weight of his captor's body. He heard the metallic sound as de Cortez thumbed back the hammer. His nerve deserted him and he closed his eyes as he swallowed heavily, hanging on to an image of Shea the way he'd first seen her.

  And in the split second when the boom seemed to rip apart the small room, he had time to wonder that he'd heard the shot at all.

  * * *

  Quisto was halfway across the main room when he heard the sharp report. He froze, waiting, but there were no more. He heard Morgan's shout but ignored it as he headed for the hallway, gun drawn. His goal was de Cortez's office, but when he saw the door of Shea's dressing room open, he stopped.

  He held his breath, listening for a few seconds. All he could hear was someone taking gasping breaths and an odd, muffled sound. He darted his head around into the doorway, weapon at the ready.

  "No," he choked out, "God, no."

  It was a moment frozen in time. Chance, his back to the door, sprawled on the floor with his hands tied behind him with some piece of bright red material. And creeping out from beneath him, an ominous, spreading pool that was even brighter, even redder.

  And then, incredibly, he moved. He lifted his head, turned it, and looked at Quisto with a pair of blue eyes that were dazed. When he saw who was there, his eyes closed again on a shuddering breath, and his head slumped back to the floor.

  Only then did Quisto see the limp form sprawled half on top of Chance's muscular body, a cocked automatic clutched in dead fingers. And only then did he, with stunned realization, find the source of that odd muffled sound—Shea, huddled in the corner, quivering violently, Chance's small revolver still gripped in her trembling fingers.

  "Dios mio," Quisto breathed, seeing instantly what had happened.

  "We've got most of them—"

  Lieutenant
Morgan broke off the minute he got close enough to see over Quisto's shoulder.

  "My God."

  "I'll handle this. Go wrap it up," Quisto said gruffly, holstering his gun and striding across the room to Chance. There were times, Morgan thought, when the best thing a boss could do was take an order from one of his men. He had no doubts that this was one of those times, and he left.

  Quisto knelt beside his downed partner, reaching for his bound hands.

  "You all right?"

  A shudder went through Chance again; Quisto felt it in his arms as he tried to undo the knot.

  "Yeah," he finally croaked out. "Just … get him off me, will you?"

  Quisto's first instinct was to shove the limp body off Chance like the garbage he was, but the memory of Shea's presence made him do it more gently. Then he went back to the scarf and untied it. He slid an arm around Chance's shoulders and helped him sit up. Gingerly Chance brought his arms back to normal position and flexed them, rubbing at his wrists.

  When he had the tremors slowed, if not under control, Chance tried to go to Shea. He found he couldn't walk, and' wound up half crawling. She drew up tighter, shutting him out before he even got close. When he lifted a shaky hand, she jerked back out of his reach.

  The last stubborn ember of hope died in him. Like a man feeling his way through heavy fog, he stood up. The shaking had stopped now, the hammering of his heart had slowed. He felt nothing but a vague numbness. He saw Quisto kneel beside Shea, but she turned him away, too. The gun fell to the floor from fingers trembling too badly to hold it any longer.

  He let Quisto lead him to the table Shea had used for her makeup. He sat on the edge of it, only peripherally aware that the noise outside had increased.

  "Find Eric," Chance said hoarsely. "Eric Carlow. He's with the band. She'll let him help her."

  "I'll find him. You sure you're all right? Nothing broken? You look like they beat the hell out of you."

  "Nothing's broken."

  "What the hell happened, man?"

  Chance laughed bitterly. "What happened? He was tipped, that's what happened. He knew who I was, that we were coming in, and when. He knew it all."

  Quisto looked stunned, then thoughtful. "Eaton," he murmured.

  "What?"

  "Eaton. He disappeared right after you left. Never made the raid."

  A memory poked through the fog. "He was outside the lieutenant's door. He knew I was headed here."

  "The bastard," Quisto snapped, furious. "I'll bet if we dug deep enough, we'd find he's the one who tipped de Cortez to the raid in Miami. Lieutenant Morgan will call them. They'll pick him up, Chance. He's history." Quisto swore sharply. "He must have been getting a hell of a payoff. And being able to burn you was a big bonus, a sop to his ego."

  Chance shook his head, dazed. "He hated me that much…"

  It didn't bother him, only surprised him. Then, as the vision formed in his mind of someone else whose hate would hurt as nothing in his life ever had, he lifted his head to look at Shea. And then away.

  Quisto had never seen anything like it. Blue eyes that had been dazed with shock and pain went flat and dull even as he watched, as if all the life and soul had left not only the eyes but the man himself.

  "Chance," he whispered, "it wasn't your fault. You had no choice but to do what you did."

  Chance stared at him as if he were some inanimate object.

  "Give her time, Chance."

  "All the time in the world won't undo what I did to her."

  "She saved your life, man. Even after she knew. That has to mean something."

  The last flicker of light in the blue eyes was snuffed out. In a voice utterly devoid of feeling, Chance said flatly, "Yeah, means I'm a real prize. One woman dies for me, and another one kills for me."

  He slipped off the table and walked unsteadily out of the room.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  «^»

  Shea held her guitar, a blank page scored for music in front of her on the table and a pencil lodged over her ear, but she was spending more time watching the clouds her breath made in the frosty air than committing any notes to paper.

  She looked around at the mountains, sadly aware that the snow-covered landscape gave her none of the pleasure it always had. It had been her last hope, coming home, her last chance at regaining any of the joy she'd once had in life. It had failed miserably, and as she sat in the brilliant sunshine and crisp air of a perfect Tahoe winter day, she knew nothing would ever give her back that joy.

  After a while she had decided she would settle for the absence of pain. She'd been skating nicely along the surface of life for nearly a month now, never letting her mind stray from the tasks of day-to-day life, rising, working on music that wouldn't come, fixing food she didn't eat, forcing herself to stay awake so the nightmares wouldn't happen. These abnormal things became her normalcy, the anodynes that kept her from thinking of anything else. She'd become very good at it.

  She heard the car on the freshly plowed street but paid no attention. Her friends knew of her penchant for solitude since she had returned, and few bothered her. She plucked at the strings again, fretfully. She changed the key and tried again. And again. And at last she dropped the pencil. She couldn't deny it any longer. The music was gone.

  She sat hunched over the guitar, staring at the blank page. For the briefest of moments a wish to feel something, anything crept into her mind. She banished it as she had all other thoughts like that, almost all thought altogether. She knew that once she let any emotion in she would be inundated, and she would drown in the flood.

  "You look colder than the snow, querida."

  She went cold inside so fast that he was very close to the truth. Her voice was as chilled as the snowy countryside, her eyes as flat and withdrawn as a pair of blue ones had been weeks before.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Quisto grabbed the upright post to the porch roof and lowered himself to sit on the top step. "What do you think?"

  "Did he send you?"

  "No."

  She made a wordless sound of disbelief.

  "I know you have no reason to believe me, but nevertheless it is true. He didn't send me."

  "Then why are you here?" she asked again, her tone flat and empty.

  "Has he been here?"

  "You came a long way to ask me that. Why don't you just ask him?"

  "Because I don't know where he is."

  That startled her, but she recovered quickly. "The cops lost a cop?"

  The words were flippant, and he would have expected sarcasm, even bitterness, but her voice was as flat and expressionless as it had been before.

  "No. He just disappeared. Went AWOL, as it were. The day after you refused to see him, after the funeral."

  If he'd meant to bait her, she didn't rise to it.

  "Why would you ever think he'd come here?"

  "Because he loves you."

  He said it simply, as a statement of fact, and for the first time something flickered in her eyes. It was gone so quickly Quisto couldn't tell what it had been—pain, anger or hatred. Any of the three seemed equally likely.

  "There's no need to perpetuate the fantasy any longer."

  "What fantasy?" Quisto asked softly.

  "That he … loved me."

  The break in her voice told him that she wasn't quite as frozen as the landscape, wasn't quite as frozen as she would like to think. And probably not as frozen as she wanted to be. But when she went on, she was once more in control.

  "He had a job to do. He used me to do it. It's over."

  "If you really think that's all it was, then you're a fool. And I don't think you're a fool."

  Shea set down her guitar with exquisite care and much more concentration than the task required. She sat primly on the edge of the chair, her hands tucked between her knees. It was because they were cold, she told herself firmly, not because they were shaking. She took a deep breath.

 
"I understand he had to do it. I've … come to terms with what my brother was. And I suppose I was a fool for not seeing it." That flicker came and went in her eyes again. "I guess I've made a fool of myself twice, haven't I? Once over my brother, and once…" She faltered; she hadn't said his name, not even to herself, and she didn't dare now.

  "And for the same, stupid reason," she ended in a whisper, hating the way her voice suddenly shook. "I loved them."

  "You were wrong about your brother. You weren't wrong about Chance."

  "Please." A hint of desperation crept into her voice. "I've told you I understand. That he had to do what he did."

  "Yes, he did. But not for the reason you think." Quisto paused, searching for the words to break through the formidable shell she'd built. He'd had no luck with Chance; he prayed he could get through to Shea.

  "He was after my brother. What other reason is there?"

  "You. To protect you."

  She stared at him, then gave an agonized little laugh.

  "Shea, listen." He shifted slightly so he could watch her face. "When we began, we all thought you were in on it."

  "What?" Her eyes widened in disbelief, but Quisto welcomed it; at least she was listening.

  "You were his sister. We thought you had to at least know what he was, and what he was doing. All of us did." His voice went soft as he added, "Except Chance. He fought us all, practically from day one."

  Quisto kept his eyes on her. He wanted to be sure she was hearing every word. "We didn't believe him, but he wouldn't budge. He knew even then that he was getting in too deep. Do you remember that week he didn't see you at all?"

  Slowly, as if hypnotized, Shea nodded.

  "He wanted out then. He told me he was out of control, that he'd lost the line."

  "The line…?"

  "Between how he felt for you and the job. And which was more important." Quisto moved on the step, edging closer to her. "It may have started out as work, Shea, but it changed almost immediately. He had to lie to you, but he wasn't living a lie. Everything he felt for you was real. More real than anything I've ever seen him feel since I've known him."