Angel: An SOBs Novel

by Irish Winters

  Gallo sunk to his belly, stalking their prey alongside his master like a skilled teammate instead of an untrained mutt. They came within ten feet of the killer without Zapata knowing they were there. The bastard had Suede on her knees facing away from him, her long hair twisted around his gloved hand. With his elbow cocked and knife raised like it was, he meant to cut her throat.

  Chance didn’t think twice, but before his trigger finger went live, another man stepped into view just beyond Zapata to his right. A Spanish male with darkly tanned skin and sharp black eyes, dressed in black jeans and jacket. A tactical jacket.

  “Stop!” he bellowed, his weapon also trained on Zapata.

  Zapata jerked Suede off her knees, leaning her back on his thigh. “You pig! You lying pig! I knew you were dirty!”

  “He’s mine!” a distinctly feminine voice shrieked at Chance’s left. “Drop it, Chief.”

  What the holy fuck just happened? The forest had turned into a damned sniper convention. Chance dropped nothing.

  Zapata crouched low in the snow, growling like an animal while Suede whimpered, “Chance?” She still couldn’t see him.

  “I’m here,” he confirmed, though he was still a couple yards away, and retrieving her had just gotten incredibly complicated.

  “Back off, Hex,” Juarez demanded even though he kept his pistol trained on Zapata, “or you’ll die with him.”

  “You think I’m afraid of you?” she taunted, but neither she nor Juarez lowered their weapons. Juarez still had his sights on Zapata, and interestingly, Hex did, too. Chance also had a clear shot at the back of Zapata’s head. He edged up closer behind the killer, but didn’t get far before Juarez barked, “Don’t do it, Chief.”

  Son-of-a-bitch, does everyone know I’m a retired naval officer?

  “Go to hell,” Chance growled, finally close enough. He pressed the barrels of both weapons into the back of Zapata’s skull. “Let her go or die where you stand.”

  “Chance,” Suede whimpered. “I lost Gallo. I’m s-sorry.”

  “No, he’s…” Shit. Where’d that damned dog take off to now? “Don’t worry, Suede. Hang on.” He’ll be back, and then I’ll kick his ass, the coward.

  Zapata had the balls to jerk Suede’s head up higher, her neck fully exposed and his knife under her chin. “She’s mine, Sinclair. I smell her blood. There’s nothing you can do to save her.”

  “That’s nothing compared to what you’re going to smell if you don’t let her go,” Chance hissed, grinding his cold steel into Zapata’s head.

  “You don’t want to do this, Zapata,” Juarez said. “He’s got you. Be reasonable. Let her go.”

  “Don’t kill Domingo,” Hex spat. “He’s mine, I’m telling you. He’s mine!”

  “What the hell do you want?” Chance asked her.

  Juarez cast a terse look at Chance. “There’s a bounty on your head, my friend. Dead or alive. You’re a legend. That is all she wants. The thirty silver coins.”

  Counting on Juarez to be the friend Kruze said he was, Chance leveled one pistol at Hex, still keeping contact with Zapata’s skull. “Two can die here as easy as one,” he promised her.

  “But no one has to die,” Juarez corrected, his weapon still trained on Zapata.

  Chance shot him an appraising glare. Bronze-skinned with dark hair cut short and tight, built like a linebacker, Juarez was not the typical hit man. Square from the ground up, yes, but he made intelligent sense in one of the worst situations Chance had ever been in. No one had to die. But they sure as hell would if they came between Suede and him.

  Chance prodded Zapata one last time. “You heard the man. Drop it and live. But if you so much as flex a muscle or breathe hard, I’ll blow you to hell.”

  The bastard huffed frosty white vapor in defiance with Suede’s hair still curled in his fist and his knife at her throat. “Then trade York for this lying bitch,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Where is he? You know, don’t you?”

  “The last time I saw your boss, he was up on my mountain waiting for a bus,” Chance lied. “Why? You lose him?”

  “Nobody came for him? He left him there?” Zapata asked.

  Chance cocked his head. “Who left him there?”

  “El Jefe! The lying son-of-a-bitch!”

  Chance didn’t want to blow Zapata’s head off with him standing over Suede like he was, but if he kept jerking her around like he was, there’d soon be no choice. He gave the bastard one last opportunity. “Who the hell’s El Jefe?”

  Zapata’s neck muscles turned to rods of steel, his jaw clenched so tight Chance heard something pop. His knuckles turned white. The man was ready to blow. When he still said nothing, Chance bumped that pistol into Zapata’s hard head until he was staring at his boots. “Get up, Suede. Now. Nice and easy. Zapata’s going to let you go now, aren’t you?”

  “Drop the blade, Domingo,” she bit out, “and let me go.”

  She’d just called him by his first name. Unbelievable. “You know this guy?” Chance had to ask. This standoff was Laurel and Hardy’s Who’s on First all over again, only without the laugh track.

  Suede’s mean girl came out to play. Her fists balled and her chin stuck out. “Domingo Zapata was Lionel York’s Deputy Dog. Where York went, bodies tended to disappear.”

  “Why are you just telling me this?”

  “Because Zapata’s been gone a while, and I thought maybe we got lucky and someone killed him.”

  “I will kill him for this,” Zapata spat, his knife still at her throat.

  “Who the fuck’s El Jefe?” Chance had to know.

  Everything happened at once. Suede leaned into the knife at her throat, then jerked her head back. Zapata’s too-close nose split wide open. From out of nowhere, a vicious gray wolf landed snarling on the man’s shoulders.

  Gallo?

  “Diablo!” he screamed, his arms curled over his head. But Gallo hung on, slashing and snarling. Anything he could reach, fingers, ears, scalp, the vicious dog snapped, ripped, and tore. Down they went, Gallo growling like a demon, all fangs and claws; Zapata grunting and kicking. Screeching in Spanish.

  Suede dropped to her belly. Vicki Hex stepped in close and took careful aim at the whirling mass of pissed-off dog and bloodied man.

  Chance didn’t think twice. His wrist flicked as his pistol shot the pink SIG from Miss Hex’s hand.

  With a shriek, she dropped to her knees in the blood sprayed snow, cradling her bleeding hand. “Stop this madness! He’s killing him!”

  Juarez sent Chance a chin nod, not exactly what Chance expected from a cold-blooded killer, but okay. Juarez’s weapon still aimed at the whirling mass of Gallo and Zapata, not Suede and not Chance. Trusting his instincts, Chance roared over the din of a groaning man and a fierce, unrelenting German Shepherd. “Gallo! Off!”

  When Gallo shook Zapata’s hand like he meant to tear it off, Chance bellowed again. “Off!”

  Still as menacing as a damned fine guard dog, Gallo backed away from Zapata. His head remained low, his fangs bared.

  “Drop it, JJ!” a man ordered. Damned if Kruze hadn’t just stepped out of the trees, huffing and puffing, his rifle trained on Juarez before he jerked the goggles off his head and glared at Chance. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Chance nodded at Suede. “Rescuing my woman. What are you doing here?”

  Kruze’s killer-gaze shifted from Suede to Juarez, from Juarez to Hex and onto Zapata. Then back to Suede. “Same thing. I came here to save her from this asshole. You heard from Pagan lately?”

  Chance could’ve sworn a hint of a smile tweaked the corners of Juarez’s thin lips. “He’s safe. I honestly don’t know what just happened here, or who’s who. Let’s bag ’em and tag ’em, until we’re inside and can sort this mess out.”

  Kruze relieved Juarez of his weapons and knocked him to his knees. Oddly, the man didn’t resist, not even when Kruze pushed his face into the snow and cuffed his hands behind his back. “Stay t
he fuck down, you two-faced traitor,” Kruze hissed, his knee between Juarez’s shoulder blades. Glaring at Chance, he ordered, “He moves, you shoot him.”

  Chance nodded from where he knelt zip-tying Zapata’s bleeding wrists behind his back. It wasn’t often Kruze pulled rank on him. Almost made him smile.

  But damn, Gallo had gone crazy on Zapata. He was torn up pretty bad. Chance pulled the now subdued killer to his knees, then let him get his feet under him. Once the man was able to stand, he added a leather collar to Zapata’s neck, then fastened a chain from the back of the collar to the cuffs. A hog-tied prisoner made for a controllable prisoner.

  Interestingly, Miss Vicki Hex hadn’t received the same face-in-the-snow treatment Juarez did. Instead, Kruze had her sitting on her butt in a snowdrift while he wrapped her bloodied hand in bandages from his blowout kit. What the hell?

  “You about done playing doctor?” Chance asked sarcastically.

  “For now.” Kruze didn’t spare a glance. “Are you able to walk, ma’am?” he asked Hex.

  Damned if her cheeks didn’t glow when she nodded and said, “Yes. I think so. Thank you.”

  “Because of our radio silence” —Chance wouldn’t let on that he hadn’t been able to contact his nitwit brother or that Kruze didn’t play by the rules— “you may not know that woman you’re treating shot your baby brother today.”

  At last Kruze pulled his gaze from the Mafia’s best girl. “She did? Is Pagan okay?”

  “I only winged him,” she murmured, her chin tilted up, her dark eyes on Kruze. Charming him like the snake she was.

  When Kruze looked down into Hex’s upturned face like a lovesick hound dog, Chance barked, “They go in the back way,” in case Kruze had forgotten that these three—oh, by the way—were fucking murderers. “Move it. Now!”

  Kruze nodded, while he cupped Hex’s elbow and assisted her to her feet with a polite, “There you go, ma’am. Watch your step.”

  What the fuck! “Kruze!” Chance bit out. “Now’d be nice.” That earned him a frown, but seriously? Sucking up to the female assassin? Get your head out of your ass, brother.

  The trek through the trees to the cabin’s tunnel entrance went fairly smooth. Kruze led out with Hex and Juarez. Chance followed with a surly Zapata, while Suede and Gallo brought up the rear. It made a dog-owner proud to hear Gallo growl every few feet, no doubt warning Zapata. Damned proud.

  Once inside their secure basement, Chance sent Suede upstairs. He didn’t want her involved in what had to happen next. Chance wanted answers, and he wasn’t above a little rough play if that was what it took. He added manacles to Zapata’s restraints and locked him in a cell, while Kruze manhandled Juarez into the cell across the hall from Zapata. Miss Hex had taken a seat on the bench outside the two cells as if politely waiting her turn.

  “You think you can make me talk?” the stupid man with the chewed-up, bloody face hissed.

  Chance finally looked Zapata in the eye. He was a tattooed freak from hell, black ink covering his face, neck and arms. He’d filed his teeth into sharp points, but the fully dilated pupils staring back at him caught Chance’s attention. “What are you on? Coke? Mescaline?”

  Disgust stared back at him. “Death,” Zapata spat.

  “Then you’re in luck. You came to the right place,” Chance shot back at him. Gallo prowled the hall, but he seemed most interested in Zapata, not Juarez or Hex. Interesting.

  Juarez took the bench at the back of his cell, his knees spread and his cuffed hands interlocked between them. His head was up and his dark eyes were clear. Untroubled. Damned disconcerting.

  “You,” Chance hissed. “From the Navy to this. What makes a man sink so low?”

  Juarez gave him that same cocky chin lift as before. “Let me out of here and I’ll show you.”

  “Chance,” Kruze called out from ten feet away where he stood with Miss Vicki, who seemed damned docile given her bad-assed rep. “A minute?”

  “Yeah, what?”

  Kruze nodded at the clinic door to his right, his hand clutching Hex’s bicep. Her eyes were as clear as Juarez’s, another puzzle Chance hadn’t time to decipher.

  “Stay,” Chance told Gallo. Damned if the dog didn’t drop his butt at the door to Zapata’s cell, his ears forward, his hackles up, and his eyes on the man he apparently hated. Chance didn’t blame him, but why the distinction between Zapata and the other killers in the room? What’d Gallo know that he didn’t? Was it merely that Zapata had harmed Suede?

  Once inside the clinic where man and dog could be treated if needed, Chance kept one eye on Kruze and Miss Vicki, the other on the hall where Gallo sat at taut attention like the Old Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown in Arlington.

  “Shut the door, Chance.”

  Tired of the games being played, Chance complied, but turned in a huff to his errant brother, the one who obviously had an in with Hex. “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?” he barked, his fist curled, ready to knock some sense into Kruze’s big, dumb head. “Because I’ve got to tell you, for two cents, I’d—”

  “You can’t lock her up,” Kruze said, his voice low.

  That spiked Chance’s temper all the more. “Why not? Because you’re sleeping with her?”

  Sure as hell, Kruze didn’t deny it, but Hex cocked her saucy head and said, “Because I’m a CIA operative, Retired Chief Petty Officer Chance Sinclair, and thanks to you, I may never be able to fire my weapon again.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Suede scrambled into the bedroom and changed out of her snow gear, her body still buzzing like a hive full of angry bees from her narrow escape. What a mess. But Chance was home safe and sound. That was what mattered. If she could only stop shaking.

  In the bathroom, she cleaned the thin slice where Zapata had cut her neck. Chance will kill him for that alone, she thought as she pressed a butterfly bandage to the nick on her cheek next.

  Full of adrenaline, she fast-tracked to the kitchen and set a full pot of coffee to drip. Chance would be hungry. Kruze too. She had no idea if Zapata or his assassin friends would hang around or if Chance planned to feed them, but she set three pounds of peppered bacon to sizzling on the massive built-in griddle alongside the stove, then sliced two loaves of banana bread while the bacon browned.

  A double breakfast casserole came next, but omelets had to wait until the men came upstairs. No one liked tough eggs, and she didn’t know how long this interrogation, or whatever Chance was doing down there, would take. She half expected to hear gunshots, he’d looked so fierce.

  Now she understood hyper-vigilance. Her nerves were strung as tight as the skin on a snare drum. Every little noise seemed too loud and everything startled her until she seriously contemplated dosing her coffee with the expensive liquor Pagan loved.

  Speaking of Pagan, where was he? Opting for reading instead of drinking, Suede settled into the corner of the couch and lifted Scarlett Sinclair’s novel, My Enemy Tryst, from the end table. But as much as she tried, her brain wouldn’t focus. She kept reliving what had just happened. Even York made an after death appearance in her frazzled brain. Rest and reading wasn’t happening until she had Chance in her arms and could kiss the hell out of him.

  Suede set the novel aside when a sound at the front door brought her upright. What now? She jumped to her feet. Did she dare see who was out there? For a secluded cabin in the mountain, this place certainly got a lot of company and most of it was unwelcome. Should she hide like the coward she felt like?

  Whoever it was, that person banging at the door wasn’t leaving. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?

  Before she could get to the door, it shoved open. “Pagan!”

  *****

  It all made sense now. The rep for winging the boys-in-blue instead of killing them. Her presence in Portland. Vicki wasn’t there for a piece of the action. She didn’t want in on the drug distribution in the Northwest either. No. All this time, she’d been tracking Domingo Za
pata under the guise of her moonlighting job while she’d actually worked deep undercover for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Inside the Sicilian mob, for hell’s sake. Could things get crazier?

  Yep.

  Chance had no sooner called the senator and told him who he had in custody and why, when his cell lit up with a number he dared not let go to voicemail. “Excuse me, but I’ve really need to take this.” Really.

  Automatically, Chance’s spine straightened. He motioned Kruze to shut the door behind him so Juarez and Zapata couldn’t listen in, thumbed ‘Accept’ and said, “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Chief Sinclair, it’s a pleasure to finally speak with you.” President Adams sounded as if he were there in the basement instead of sitting at his desk in the Oval Office in Washington D.C.

  Chance damned near saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  “Relax, son. How’s the fly-fishing in your corner of my country?” This was why Chance voted for President Adams. He was one of the guys, a down-home boy from Oklahoma, and a true blue American who stood by his military men and women.

  “You’ll catch more rainbows once the weather warms up, Mr. President.”

  Kruze came to Chance’s side, his arms crossed over his chest, a big question mark in his eyes. Why’s he calling you?

  Chance shook his head. I have no idea, unless it has to do with Vicki, umm, shit, Agent Hex. For once he was one step ahead of things, and she was no longer in custody. But he’d shot a federal agent. My bad.

  “Chief Sinclair, I understand you can’t let on exactly what it is you’re doing out there in God’s country, and I wouldn’t ask you to. But could you do me a favor and stop calling me Mr. President? Nobody needs to know who you’re talking to. This is just between us guys.”

  “Yes, sir,” still sprang to Chance’s lips. His mom had ingrained good manners in him long before the military did.

  “Say, you wouldn’t have enough room in that high tech cabin of yours for an overnight guest, would you?” The twang in the President’s rich baritone was a pleasure to hear, but Chance knew this was not just a friendly call. Not from the Big Guy.