by Diane Capri
The bearded guy’s face showed all kinds of distress as he bent low and howled in pain. Lawton waited until he was low enough for a finishing kick to his face. Lawton delivered it swift and hard and precisely on target. Blood spattered everywhere. The bearded guy went down.
Lawton turned to the pockmarked man, who stood pointing the pistol directly at him. “One more move and you’ll never walk again, Vigo,” Lawton said.
Vigo’s stare was meaner as he took a step forward, brandishing the pistol. His lips opened in a terrifying grin. Light glinted from his gold capped teeth.
“You following in your old man’s footsteps? That what this is? Gonna kill a federal agent like he did? Show your enemies how tough you are?” Lawton narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “Give it a try. My team will hound you for the rest of your days. You’ll be lucky if they let you die in prison like your old man.”
Vigo’s head might literally have exploded if he hadn’t found a way to release the pressure. His face crumpled into a deep scowl. His breathing came hard and fast. He wanted not merely to hurt Lawton but to pulverize him into a sniveling, snotty mess, like he’d done to Mason.
“Get over there,” Vigo said, waving the gun toward the far corner.
Lawton backed toward it, never taking his eyes off Vigo.
Mason struggled to rise to all fours and staggered to his feet, intending to follow Lawton.
The bearded man was groaning, coming around to consciousness.
“Not you, O’Hare.” Vigo walked toward the big man, bent down, and picked up the shotgun. “You help Hector get up the stairs.”
Mason nodded miserably. He wouldn’t be much help to Hector or anyone else. He could barely move. He felt like he’d vomit and piss himself again if he tried.
Hector pushed Mason away and managed to stand on his own. He swiped his bloody face clean on his sleeve and moved toward the staircase.
Mason followed behind, moving as well as he could. The two climbed the steps, slowly and laboriously. Mason kept one arm around his belly. The sharp pain he felt every time he tried to breathe probably meant he had a cracked rib or two.
When Mason was halfway up, he looked back over his shoulder. Vigo had walked toward Lawton.
“Turn around. Face the wall,” Vigo ordered.
Lawton said nothing. Nor did he move.
Vigo shot the pistol into one of the top bunk bed mattresses, mere inches from Lawton’s head. The monstrously loud noise was contained and maybe it had been quiet enough. Maybe it didn’t wake the entire Glen Haven compound. But the boldness of the shot pushed Mason up the stairs faster than before.
“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already, Lawton. Your time is coming. Think about that,” Vigo said, as he backed slowly away from Lawton and up the stairs behind Mason.
At the top of the stairs, a deadbolt slid open and a third man with a gun waved them into the main bunkhouse. When all three were out of the basement, he closed and bolted the door.
“What the hell happened down there, Hector?” he said.
“Don’t ask.” Hector shook his head. He made his way toward the kitchen for a cold towel and an ice pack for his battered face.
“I’ll let you know when it’s time to panic, okay? Everything’s fine. Better than we planned.” Vigo growled and shoved Mason forward. “Freddie, put this moron in one of the beds. And check him over. Make sure nothing’s busted.”
Freddie scowled and said, “He stinks. Can I hose him down, boss?”
“Yeah. Do us all a favor,” Vigo replied.
“This way,” Freddie said.
Mason followed slowly behind him to the other end of the bunk house, through the door to the bedroom. Freddie shoved him into the shower. The water pelted his skin like icy crystals. Mason shivered with pain and cold and horror as he watched his blood run onto the tile and down the drain.
When he decided Mason was done, Freddie turned the water off and tossed him a towel. Then he pushed Mason into the bedroom. All of the bunks were empty.
He gave Mason another shove. Mason stumbled and flopped down onto a lower bunk. Freddie left the room and came back a while later with a pair of jeans and a shirt. He tossed the clean, dry clothes to Mason.
“Get dressed, man. Straighten yourself up. You don’t want Vigo thinking you’re worthless, do you? Because if that happens, he’ll have no further use for you. You don’t want that, man. Trust me,” Freddie said.
Mason stood and peeled off his wet clothes. He pulled on the jeans and shirt, which he recognized had come from his own closet back in his room.
Freddie nodded. “That’s better. Compose yourself. Vigo will be in to see you.”
The words alone were enough to chill Mason’s whole body more than the cold shower. If he never saw Vigo again, it would be too soon. But he sensed Vigo and his crew were way too comfortable here. They didn’t seem to be preparing to move on. Not even a little bit.
“What does he want from me?” Mason asked.
“He’ll tell you himself. And take my advice. Whatever it is, you want to live another day, you give it to him.” Freddie replied before he left the room and bolted the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Thursday, April 14
3:00 p.m.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Mason had lain awake worrying for a while. He’d run several scenarios through his head and each one was more terrifying than the last. He worried about Cheryl and Micah. He worried about Glen Haven and the family he had found there.
Vigo was destroying everything that meant anything to Mason and there wasn’t a damn thing he could figure out to fix things.
Multiple places on his body complained every time he moved. His ribcage hurt with every breath. His eye had swollen shut. When Vigo hit him with the pistol, his nose had gone all mushy again. Nothing he could do about any of it, but he certainly didn’t want Cheryl to see him like this.
Finally, exhaustion and tension overcame him. He’d dozed off.
A sharp poke in the ribs with a shotgun stock jerked him awake. The hard bed had stiffened his muscles. He opened his one functioning eyelid. Vigo stood holding the shotgun, too close to miss his target if he chose to pull the trigger.
“Get up,” Vigo ordered, punctuated by another sharp thrust with the shotgun butt.
Mason moaned and grabbed his sore torso as he struggled to a sitting position.
Vigo pulled up a chair and jabbed Mason again before he straddled the chair. Mason had pressed his lips together, but another groan escaped anyway.
“You are going to help me with a problem.”
“Okay. Sure.” Mason nodded quickly, like a puppy eager to please. He had no idea how he could possibly help Vigo, but he was ready to do it if it meant Vigo would stop beating him.
Vigo’s lips lifted slightly at the corner. “Sure you don’t need further persuading?”
“Absolutely not. How can I help?” Mason shook his head rapidly from side to side and then stopped immediately because of the sharp nausea the shaking produced.
“Someone at your little commune has been talking to the feds about my business.”
Mason started to shake his head again but stopped. “Not me. Definitely not me.”
Vigo shot a steely gaze straight through to Mason’s guilty conscience. “No. If I thought you were an informant you’d be dead already.”
Mason’s body began to shake uncontrollably. He clamped his arms around his tender belly protectively and nodded again.
Vigo continued, “The mole I’m looking for has passed on information you wouldn’t know. I also don’t believe anyone in my organization would trust you with information that could get you both killed. Do you disagree?”
“Not at all. You are 100 percent correct. No one I know has talked to me about you. I d-didn’t— I d-don’t even know who you are,” he stammered. “I th-thought you were just here temporarily. Passing through, you know? Like Bruce said.”
Vigo s
aid, “Our plans have changed. We like it here.”
Mason gulped. “Sure. It’s a nice place.”
“We plan to stay awhile. Until our business is completed. We need to find the mole and shut him up. Then we’ll finish our business,” Vigo said. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Then we’ll go.”
Mason said nothing. It seemed safer.
“Agent Lawton knows the identity of this informant. We have tried to persuade him to tell us, but he is…reluctant.” Vigo cocked his head. “Perhaps he will tell you.”
Mason’s eyes widened with astonishment and his mouth formed a little circle. “Me? I don’t even know the guy. I met him once. Briefly. We’ve exchanged only a few words. Why would he tell me anything like that?”
“You should employ some positive thinking, amigo. You’ll persuade him to tell you because if he doesn’t, you’ll no longer be of use to me.” Vigo’s chilling smile and piercing gaze left no doubt of the consequences of failure.
Mason was too miserable to reply.
“We’re sending you back to the basement. You’ll find out who our mole is. And then we’ll let you go. Otherwise…” Vigo let his voice trail off and he shrugged.
“But how will I do that? He’s not simply going to volunteer the guy’s name.”
“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” Vigo said. He continued to stare at Mason. “Perhaps you need an incentive.”
The words sent another chill straight to Mason’s heart. He shook his head. “No. No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll do it. I’ll figure out how to make him tell me.”
“Good. Because the ones you care about most will pay the price if you fail. While you watch.” Vigo paused. “And then I’ll move on to the others. One at a time. Until you’re the only one left.”
“What?” Mason could feel his eyes bugging out of his head. He couldn’t mean what Mason thought he was saying. “You wouldn’t h-hurt them. They don’t know anything about this.”
Vigo cocked his head and grinned like the devil himself. “You don’t know anything about this, either, and look what’s happened to you.”
Mason’s teeth began to chatter and he shivered all over. Surely, these were empty threats. Cheryl and Micah were innocents. They’d never seen or done anything to harm Vigo and his crew. Nor would they. Vigo was a monster. A very dangerous monster.
“You know nothing about me. Ask Lawton. He’ll tell you. I am fully capable of keeping my promises.” Vigo stood and pushed the chair aside. He walked to the door and gave it a couple of solid whacks with the butt of the shotgun. “Let’s go. You’ve got work to do.”
The door opened and Freddie came in. Vigo said, “Take him back to the basement.”
Freddie strode over, grabbed Mason’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
For a brief, stupid moment, Mason considered fighting back. But how could he? He had no weapons, he couldn’t see out of one eye, and his fighting skills were nonexistent.
Miserably, he lowered his head and followed Freddie to the basement door. Freddie pulled the deadbolt back and opened it. He shoved Mason through to the landing and closed the door firmly behind him, leaving Mason standing there in the dark.
He felt along the wall until he located a light switch. The last thing he needed was to fall headlong down to the concrete floor.
Lawton waited at the bottom and Mason had no idea what to do. But he’d figure it out. He had to. For Cheryl and Micah. And the others.
He flipped the lights on and descended the stairs. “Lawton, we need to talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Thursday, April 14
4:30 p.m.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Kim walked stiffly out of the hospital hours later with orders from the half-dozen doctors who’d checked her over and wanted her to stay a couple of days for observation. After all their tests, they’d diagnosed bruised muscles, but no fractures or tears anywhere. They told her to take it easy for a couple of weeks to allow her battered body time to recover and see her doctor when she returned to Detroit.
Like any of that was going to happen.
Agent Ross had insisted she follow those orders and he’d threatened to call her boss if she refused. He meant the man she officially reported to back in the Detroit field office. Since her boss had no idea where she was, or why, and she was under orders not to tell him about the hunt for Reacher, it was the one threat Ross had made that actually impacted her decisions.
So she’d said, “Okay, Ross. No problem. Let me know what you find out when you finish processing at the saloon. I want to know who those two women are. The one that ran. And the one who tried to kill me.”
“You got it,” he’d replied.
She figured his promise was about as good as hers. Meaning neither one was worth the breath it took to utter the words.
But she’d learned something. Several things, actually.
The most important lesson was that she needed a more reliable partner in this.
Ross wasn’t the man for the job. He’d killed to save her from certain death, which was good. But he thought he had the right to tell her what to do, which wasn’t okay. Not even a little bit.
And he was FBI.
Which meant he’d have processes and procedures and rules to follow. That definitely wasn’t something she could be limited by now.
She also needed her own transportation. Ross had left another agent at the hospital to take her to a local hotel for that rest she was supposed to get. He’d promised to debrief her once matters at the Last Chance Saloon were completed. She wasn’t holding her breath until that happened, even if her sore chest might have allowed her to try.
The second agent dropped her off at the local chain hotel. She checked in and went to her room. She flopped onto her back on the bed. Even after her bruises healed, she might never lie on her stomach again.
As it was, when she closed her eyes she felt the big woman’s heavy weight pressing her like a panini sandwich again. Her lids snapped open, sweat dotted her brow, and she gasped for air half a dozen times before her brain objectively registered the panic response and she could consciously control her breathing.
She called room service for two large pots of coffee and a hamburger and practiced closing her eyes while she waited. Each time, the panic closed in again, but she forced herself to endure it for a few seconds longer.
By the time the food arrived thirty minutes later, she was able to close her eyes for a full sixty-seven seconds without screaming. Progress.
She drank the coffee and wolfed down the burger. She practiced closing her eyes between bites while she sat on the bed.
Changing her position made the panic marginally better. She felt the perspiration on her brow and the increase in her respiratory rate each time, but she could function. Could she sleep in a sitting position for the rest of her life?
When she’d finished the burger, she called Gaspar on a new burner phone. “Chico,” she said when he picked up.
“That’s a common name, you know. One of these days, you’ll get the wrong person on the other end of the line,” he teased.
“But not today,” she replied.
“No. Not today.” He laughed and then became serious. “Where’ve you been? I don’t have eyes on you out there. And neither does anyone else.”
“Point taken.” She nodded. He meant that the Boss wasn’t watching her every move, there to clean up the mess or send in the cavalry or deliver whatever she needed to get the job done. Neither was Finlay, it seemed.
She’d been operating with a safety net up until now. She was nervous without it. Not that how she felt about it mattered in the least.
Gaspar said, “What do you need?”
“Only two things at the moment. First, a vehicle,” she said. She tried closing her eyes as they talked. Focusing on the conversation helped.
“I can have it delivered within an hour. Give me your address.”
“Something I can drive. Not one of
those monstrous sedans you like. I need to be able to see over the steering wheel.” She found a card on the little desk by the phone with the hotel’s address and gave it to him. She could hear the keyboard keys clacking as he set the order in motion.
Her chest hurt like she’d been battered by a charging elephant. Which she had. She ignored the pain, took a deep breath and held it in her lungs, simply because she could.
She’d never again take the simple act of breathing for granted. She did it again, feeling the agony, getting used to the pain so she could deal with it.
“Okay,” he said. “What’s the second thing?”
“I need a new partner,” she said, continuing to breathe as normally as possible, while keeping her eyes closed and focusing on the conversation. The panic had subsided. Her heartbeat slowed to something closer to normal.
“You must be delusional. You think I’ve got pull with the FBI’s HR department? Ask your boss. He’s the one who got you into this Reacher gig. He can get you out of it,” Gaspar said, huffily.
“That’s another whole issue, and you know it. I’m not ready for that yet. Besides, when did you become such a big fan of the Boss?” She kept up the breathing and the pain was becoming tolerable, just as she’d expected it would. The more she directed her focus to other things, the less panicked she felt with her eyes closed. Which was okay, too.
He said, “I’m not a fan. And yes he considers you expendable. But it is his job to keep you alive. If you don’t make it back from one of his ops, he’ll at least have to answer for it. Which he definitely does not want to do.”
“Usually, you’d be right. But as he doesn’t even know I’m here…”
Gaspar’s exasperation traveled with the words. “Give him an incentive to help you out, even if he doesn’t want to. Just tell him you want a new partner. He’ll find you another expendable schmuck now that I’m gone.”
She cocked her head as if she could see him across the miles all the way to Miami. She had a plan B here. And a plan C, too. As she always did. But she wasn’t ready to give up on Gaspar just yet.