by Kelly Irvin
“Is he breathing?” She dropped to her knees. “Eli, talk to me.”
“He’s breathing.” Deacon wiped at his face with the back of his dirty sleeve. “He asked for you a second ago.”
“Eli, I’m here. Talk to me.” She touched his bruised cheek. The dark stubble on his chin tickled her fingers. His nose looked swollen and crooked. “Don’t you want to tell me I told you so or rant about how reckless I am or something . . . ?”
Anything.
He moaned. She bent so close her lips brushed his forehead. He smelled musty, like dirt and sweat. “Talk to me, love.”
“Gabs, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just hang on. Help is on the way.”
“Tell my son I love him.”
“I will—what?”
“That’s what I couldn’t tell you.” He coughed and groaned. “I have a son. You have to tell him.”
Eli had a son. Nothing made sense. Too many missing pieces. Right now it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but keeping Eli alive. “You’ll tell him yourself. You’re too stubborn to die.”
“Jake? Is he too stubborn too?”
Please God, let that be true. Hope welled in Gabriella. She glanced around, but her brother didn’t appear. “Is Jake here? Is he okay?”
“I moved him into the shade.” Deacon’s hoarse words came in ragged gasps. “He’s okay. Weak, dehydrated. Beat up.”
“You check on him. Tell him I’m here. Tell him Natalie’s here. I’ll stay with Eli. You have to get to her. She’s going crazy out there, not knowing.”
“Got it.” Deacon removed his hands. They were red with blood. “Keep pressure on.”
Gorge rising in her throat, she nodded and took his place.
“Mendez?” Eli struggled to sit up. Gabriella pushed him back down. The desire to lay next to him, to pour her blood into him overwhelmed her. “Did they get him?”
“He’s dead. But they have Sunny.” The woman had given the performance of a lifetime. A consummate actress. Angel-seductress-destroyer. “She’s going to prison for a long time.”
“The brother?”
“This one.” Deacon knelt again. He untangled the legs of the man next to Eli with great care. The man stirred and moaned. “Pedro Mendez, Andy Mendez’s brother. He’s alive. We’ve got him, Eli. He’ll pay for breaking into Natalie’s house and terrorizing little kids. He’ll go to prison for a long time.”
A family of psychopaths.
Deacon hoisted himself to his feet and stumbled away. He looked ten years older than he had only a week earlier.
Before he’d met a cadre of people consumed by greed and willing to ignore the horrific human cost of their gun trafficking.
Eli didn’t talk anymore, but Gabriella kept talking to him. “You have a son. That’s so amazing. You’ll have to introduce us. I can’t wait to meet him. As soon as you’re better.”
A familiar dark, empty future loomed.
No. This time it was different. This time, she wouldn’t run away.
This time she would stay. And so would he.
Chapter 41
Beat, heart, beat. Let his heart keep beating, God, please. Gabriella cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Still, the images and sounds bombarded her. Eli’s blood soaked his shirt and seeped into the ground. The EMTs who shoved her aside and worked on him. Jake’s battered face and emaciated body. Deacon carrying Natalie to an ambulance. Eli’s labored breathing. The screaming sirens as the ambulance rocked and pitched over the gravel road.
The problem of where to go first from the ER had been solved. Eli was in surgery. Jake now enjoyed a lovely room with a view. The doctor admitted him for observation after a few stitches, a tetanus shot, X-rays, and a CT scan. They wanted him hydrated. They wrapped Natalie’s arm in a sling until she could see an orthopedic doctor for more tests. She and Deacon went to tell Virginia the news.
Gabriella should’ve gone, but she couldn’t move from the surgery waiting room. She needed to be here. She breathed. It didn’t help. Her heart refused to stop pounding. Adrenaline still pulsed in her ears. Her head throbbed. Her throat ached. People trailed in and out of the waiting room, but no one bothered with the stinky, filthy woman with tear streaks on her dirty face.
A throat cleared.
Until now. She straightened and wiped her dirty hand on her equally filthy shirt. Chuck Jensen stood over her.
“How is he?”
“In surgery. The ER doctor said he found three bullet holes. One through-and-through in his shoulder, another missed any vital organs. They’ll have to dig around for the other one.” She craned her neck from side to side. “It’s not his first rodeo. He’ll be bugging me for a ride home tomorrow.”
God, please.
Jensen eased into the plush, green upholstered chair across from hers. “I don’t know if you care at this point, but I thought I’d give you an update. You earned it. We’ve got Sunny Mendez in custody. Pedro Mendez, Andy’s brother, is in surgery. They expect him to make it. He’ll be arrested forthwith. We detained nine men on-site. Who knows how many escaped into brush country and crossed the river.”
So they could continue their business of smuggling guns, drugs, and people. “Or through the tunnel.”
“Exactly. It’s an amazing feat, that tunnel.”
Deacon had provided a thorough description. “It could’ve been Jake’s burial ground.”
“The voices on the tape belong to Andy Mendez, Kyle Sullivan, and Pedro Mendez.”
“I thought I recognized one of the voices. I just wasn’t sure until Sullivan hijacked us. Is Rincon okay?”
“Nursing a broken nose, two black eyes, and a concussion, but he’ll live. He’s just PO’d that he missed out on the big shoot-out.”
“He had no idea Sullivan was dirty?”
“He says no. They didn’t work closely together until the joint task force. LPD wanted to provide tactical support. Sullivan is talking to whoever will listen. He knows what they do to cops in prison.”
“What’s he saying?”
“He says Mendez had a merry band of thugs who raced around intimidating people as needed.”
“In a black BMW.”
“Yep. They killed Teeter and bombed the church. But the black pickup truck belongs to Sullivan. I’m betting my eyeteeth he pulled the trigger and killed the CI. He insists it was Pedro Mendez. It’ll be interesting to see how Mendez tells the story.”
“Pedro Mendez was the one who broke into our house?”
“Pedro, which explains why your sister described him as polite. The guy was an accountant with a clean record before he got mixed up his brother’s business. He did Andy’s books. Our background research shows he’s been married forty-five years to the same woman. They have five kids and ten grandkids.”
“I don’t understand why Andy Mendez would go rogue after years in public service.”
“Maybe Sunny will shed some light on that. They’ll try to get her to cooperate. Right now she’s shut up tight as a clam, waiting for her ‘daddy’s’ lawyer. We’ll question Pedro Mendez when he’s conscious. Any one of the other men we arrested could turn state’s witness for a reduced sentence. The Mexican authorities are investigating the property owner on the other side of the tunnel. It’s an auto repair shop that rents moving trucks.”
“Lots of in-and-out truck traffic.”
“Yep. One of the men arrested was Manny Figueroa.”
“Beto’s uncle.”
“Apparently, he wasn’t happy just being a front for the moving of the guns to the border. He isn’t talking, of course.”
“He knows his son and the rest of the family will step in to keep his stores running.”
“This won’t even be a tiny blip in the gun trade.”
The surgeon strode into the room. Jensen turned. Gabriella stood. The surgeon’s mouth moved, but all sound had disappeared.
Jensen’s arm went around her shoulders. He leaned closer. “He’s fine. He’ll be fine.�
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She shook loose from Jensen’s hold. “Just say it again.”
“He came through with flying colors.” The surgeon—McKee, McKinley, something like that—smiled. He looked twelve. “He’s in recovery. When they move him to a room, you can see him.”
Gabriella’s legs gave out. She dropped into the chair.
Jensen loomed over her. “Can I get you a drink of water?”
“I need to tell his mom and dad.”
“I’ll go. You’re white as a sheet. When was the last time you ate or drank anything?”
Her stomach roiled. “Natalie and Deacon are with Virginia and Xavier. Go tell them.” She clasped her arms around her middle and willed herself not to vomit. She gave him the room number. “Tell Virginia to come to the surgery floor when she can. I’ll meet her at his room when he gets out of recovery.”
Jensen said something, but Gabriella didn’t turn back. She had to get to Eli.
She raced through the hallways, only to twist and turn, tangled in red tape. She wasn’t a relative. He was in ICU. No visitors. The minutes ticked by. Finally, the surgeon intervened.
Finally, she sat by Eli’s bed, mesmerized by the simple rise and fall of his chest. The beep of the machines assured her he lived just as it had the first time they muddled through this together. Only this was different. This time she’d been there.
She touched blood on her shirt, dried to a crisp brown stain.
He lived. Jake lived. Deacon lived. Natalie lived.
Even she still drew breath.
She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed each finger. Thank You, God. I could go on without him if that’s what You wanted, but I’m so thankful You didn’t make me do it. I’m trusting You for the next breath, the next step, the next day.
Whatever he did, I forgive him. It doesn’t matter what it was. Please forgive me for being a stiff-necked, hard-hearted, selfish child.
Eli’s arm jerked. His eyelids fluttered. His head lifted. “Gabs, Gabby?”
His hoarse voice held a note of desperation drowning in a sea of undiluted fear.
“I’m here.” She grabbed his hand. “I’m right here.”
His head sank onto the pillow. “Bad dreams.”
She squeezed his hand and let go so she could scoot a chair closer. Once seated, she took his hand again. “Rest. You’re fine. So, tell me, why did you have a lighter in your pocket? Had you been smoking?”
“Seriously, you want to bust my chops about smoking right now?”
“Deacon said that lighter kept him from losing it completely.” Gabriella smoothed her thumb over the scar on his palm. “You may never have been a Boy Scout, but you came prepared.”
“How’s Deacon?”
“He’s fine. He’s with Natalie. I don’t even want to know what kind of medical treatment she’s administering.”
“Stop making me laugh.” His eyes closed again. “Pops?”
“Doing better. Your mom wouldn’t permit him to do otherwise.” She rested her forehead on the cool sheets. Thank You, Jesus.
“When I was little, Pops used to tell me the story of Elijah. You know that story?”
She raised her head, stood, and touched his forehead. Cool. Heartbeat 78. Blood pressure 128 over 82. Better than hers. “Yes, I know the story. You should sleep.”
“I was named for a powerful prophet who kept it from raining in Israel for three years. Pops used to tell me the story when I was little. God took Elijah up to heaven in a whirlwind right there in front of Elisha. My dad could tell a story.”
Gabriella waited. Eli sharing a small piece of his childhood was a rare and precious gift.
“I was four. After he turned off the lights and closed the door—you know we didn’t need night lights or the door open because God was taking care of us—I was so afraid God was going to swoop down and take me away, I hid under the covers. I was scared out of my mind.”
His voice trailed away. His eyes closed.
“Sleep, love. You can tell me later.”
“When I was stuck in that tunnel, I thought maybe He would take me up in a whirlwind. If He would even have me.”
“You didn’t think about what that would do to me?”
“I couldn’t go because of my son. I prayed He would let me be the husband you need and the father he needs.”
A son would take precedence. Gabriella had no children. Not yet. She and Eli had talked about children after he put the ring on her finger. Four or five, he said. Two or three, she said.
Someone had given him a son first.
Now, maybe he would let her in. Finally. She smoothed his sheets. “How old is your son?”
“Eight. He’s eight . . .” Eli drifted away again. His breathing was still harsh, but his chest rose and fell. “Another time then.”
She closed her eyes and willed the tears to disappear.
He would tell her when he was ready. Gabriella kissed his hand again and laid it back at his side.
Trust was a two-way street.
Chapter 42
Wheelchair races were fun. Deacon crossed the finish line—a grouping of love seats and overstuffed chairs at the end of the long hallway—before Natalie did in her rented power wheelchair. Having a doctor for a father really helped when it came to making things happen in the medical world. This fancy set of wheels didn’t require the use of her fractured arm and easily broke the speed limit of six miles an hour. His run-of-the-mill manual chair was borrowed from the lobby when the nurse wasn’t looking.
The nightmare of explaining to her insurance company the demise of both her chair and an exorbitantly expensive van only two years old would wait until tomorrow. Right now, her high, breathless laugh floating behind him was pure medicine for them both. Doctor’s orders had been to drink plenty of fluids and rest for him and for her to see an orthopedist for her arm. Somewhere in those prescriptions were the words laugh, smile, and most importantly, kiss.
He maneuvered the chair into her space and accepted his prize. Natalie met him halfway. He leaned in for a soft, careful kiss on her swollen, bruised lips.
She backed away. “We need to talk.”
“I’m busy being revived.”
“You seem plenty revived to me.”
He raised his forearm to his forehead. “I don’t know, Doctor. I feel very warm.”
“Deacon.”
“Okay.” He swiveled his chair toward the bank of windows that overlooked the medical center parking lot. In the distance a small pond sparkled in the late-morning sun. The last day of August. “Fire away. Oops. Poor choice of words. Newsroom humor.”
“Humor is a defense mechanism.” Natalie joined him at the window. “I’ve used it myself many times. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Like I dodged a bullet. Many of them, actually. Hundreds, maybe. I lived.”
“It’s okay to admit you were scared.”
“I almost wet myself.” He glanced at her profile. Bruises ringed her eyes. They looked dreamy and unfocused behind the spare pair of glasses Aunt Piper had brought along with clean clothes for all of them. An angry red scratch covered one cheek. The cut on her lip had started to scab. Still, she was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever met, and he’d just told her he was a coward. “I couldn’t breathe. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to cry like a baby.”
“But you didn’t.”
“In front of Eli, no way.”
“Eli was scared too.”
“It didn’t show. He was too busy trying to find a way out. He got in their faces. He asked questions. He was a superhero.”
“He’s a police officer. It’s what he does for a living. And he was scared. Only a moron wouldn’t be.”
“Why are we talking about this?” He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to kiss. To inhale her scent. Touch her hair. He wanted to feel that alive. “Let’s go get ice cream. Double scoops in waffle cones. Triple scoops, your favorite three flavors. What are your favorite flavors?”
“Yo
u can’t keep it locked up inside. It’ll eat you up.”
“I don’t need you to be my psychologist.” He tugged her good hand from her lap. “How’s the arm? Any pain? Do I need to kiss it and make it better?”
“Maybe you don’t think you need a psychologist, but you do need a friend.”
“Is that what you are? A friend?”
“I hope so.”
“I was kind of hoping for more.”
“Me too, but I need to start small. Can you understand that?”
“I do. I also know life is short. I’ve known that since I was eight, but the events of the last few days reinforced that knowledge in a big way.” When his parents died, his life had changed forever. He no longer believed in fairy-tale endings. He understood loss in the way no child should have to understand. “I want marriage. I want kids. I want it all.”
“Did you file your story?”
His job. If she couldn’t let go of her distaste for his job, he would not get a happy ending. Once again. “What exactly are you asking me?”
“You borrowed a phone to call in a story and send photos to your editor before you would even let the doctors look at you. You interviewed Gabby. You interviewed me. You interviewed Jake. You interviewed Special Agent in Charge Jensen.”
“I did my job.”
“You wanted to break the story before your buddy Chris did.”
“Chris broke the story here in Laredo. He’s happy. He’s my friend. I wanted to beat the national media.” The adrenaline ebbed away. His head began to throb. “I rushed to file the story because that’s how I keep my job. I need it. That’s how I pay my bills. It’s also what I do and what I am. Again, what are you asking me?”
“Your job is a huge part of your life. To Jake and Gabriella and me, this wasn’t a story.”
“If Eli weren’t lying in a hospital bed, he’d be doing his job, too, regardless of his feelings for y’all.”
“True.”
“I’m a journalist. It’s part of who I am.” If she cared for him, she would want him to be himself. The guy who loved the thrill of the hunt for a big story. “Doing this job has been the center of my life for seven years.”