Was it possible? That stickler for truth, justice, and the American way?
“Where is he?” Dan demanded. “Get him in on the line.”
He heard Vincenze deliver an order, while Dan’s wheels ate up the butchered asphalt below him.
“I can see where you’re going with this, Dan,” Lucy said.
“Except that the guy never broke a rule, let alone a law. But after what I saw in that warehouse, it makes sense.”
“How’s that?” Vincenze asked.
“Who better to know exactly how to transport cash to New York, exchange it for gold, then find a few unsavory jewelers who would refashion it into tools that could be legally shipped by the U.S. Post Office? I worked on a case exactly like that . . . with Sancere.”
“That’s very interesting,” Lucy said. “Because we traced the packing slip you found at the house, and it originated in the diamond district of New York.”
“He’s off duty and not answering his cell,” Vincenze reported. “We’ll get him, though.”
Would he have kidnapped Quinn? Why? As a favor . . . to . . . Viejo?
Dan flattened the accelerator and wished like hell he had a real car.
And then something dawned on him. Why else would Maggie leave without a fight? Quinn.
He blew around a slow-moving truck, glancing at the GPS. Still miles away. When he looked up, a bus was headed right at him. He threw the car back into the right lane, getting a loud, furious honk in response.
“Be careful, Dan,” Lucy said quietly.
“Screw careful. Everything that ever mattered to me is about to be delivered into the hands of a brutal murderer bent on revenge. Everything that ever mattered,” he repeated softly, the words stunning him with their truth.
“I know exactly how you feel.” Lucy whispered. “And my child is going to need an older cousin to look up to.”
And he’d have one, Dan swore silently.
“There’s only one drive up the hill to the house,” Lola said. “You can’t get there without being seen coming in.”
“There has to be another way.”
“There is,” Lola replied. “But you’ll have to make it on foot, and it’s complicated.”
“Spill.”
“I found her in a warehouse in Las Marías.”
At Joel Sancere’s words, Alonso Jimenez’s dark eyebrows lifted. “You did? Did you find anything else there?”
“Gallagher. He’s dead now.”
Maggie stayed very still, unbound now, but standing with her hands behind her as they’d been told, Quinn next to her in the same position.
Viejo’s eyes narrowed at Joel. “Did you find anything else?” he demanded.
“No sir.”
He found gold, but didn’t say that, Maggie thought. Which meant Joel might not have been lying to her about why he was doing this.
Viejo’s lip curled and he returned his focus to Maggie. “I speak English. Did you know that?”
She shook her head, expecting his wrath but getting barely a glimmer of the fire that used to burn in his eyes. His olive skin had turned sallow, his once haughty cheeks had sunk, his robust chest was now bony.
But he still carried a gun on one hip and a sharp, serrated dagger on the other. He was still capable of murder, especially here in an isolated house on top of a mountain, when no one knew where they were.
And no one ever would. Sancere would cover his tracks from within. Dan’s death and hers would be chalked up to maracuchos on the dangerous streets. Her son would be just another unsolved abduction story.
Hate burned through her. She couldn’t just stand here and let Quinn die. She had to do something. She had to fight.
But Viejo never looked away from her. Not once did he even glance at Quinn. For some reason, that scared her even more.
Sancere was still with them, but the driver had stayed behind, climbing out of the van and hoisting himself on top with a rifle. As if anyone was coming to save her.
She automatically reached for the bracelets she touched during any crisis in her life, but her wrist was empty. The bracelets her grandmother had given her lay on the ground in Las Marías. And so did Dan.
“I know lots of words in English.” Viejo continued, his voice thinner and weaker than it used to be. “Words like… whore.” He curled his lip at Maggie. “Your mother is a whore. Did you know that, young man?” He still didn’t look at him; just at Maggie.
She felt Quinn’s body tense.
“Don’t listen, honey. Don’t give him any power. Don’t let him make you mad.”
“I know the word fuck.” Viejo spat it out. “Do you know that word, boy?” He still faced Maggie. “Your mother knows that word.”
“Stop it!” she hissed. “He’s a child.”
“Oh, yes.” Viejo nodded. “But not a child of my family.”
“Should he be punished for that?” she challenged.
“Mom.” Quinn gave her a harsh look. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
Viejo slowly drew the dagger from its sheath. He always carried that black-and-pearl-handled knife. How many men had it killed?
She glanced at Quinn, who stared at the knife in horror.
“He should not be punished for that,” Viejo said, with an uncharacteristic quiver in his voice. “But you should be punished. You little fucking whore, who gave away secrets for sex and ruined my life.”
Now he sounded like Viejo again. Her knees felt as if they would buckle, but she forced herself to stand still.
“And you will be punished,” Viejo finished. “You will be punished by the sounds of your own son’s screams.” He nodded, looking over her shoulder. “Take her.”
She stiffened as Sancere grabbed her arm and jammed the gun between her shoulder blades. “No. Please, no.” Tears swam in her eyes as she tried to drop on her knees to Viejo. “Please, please don’t hurt him. Do anything to me. Anything. Kill me, I don’t care. Please . . .” Her words mixed with sobs as Sancere yanked her backward.
Quinn stood absolutely still, silent tears pouring down his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” She looked at Viejo. “Please— God, please don’t hurt him. Viejo!” She screamed the last word as Sancere threw her into a hallway, his gun still in her back, her arm twisted so far that white dots of pain flashed before her eyes.
Sweat rolled down Dan’s temples and back, blinding him as he crawled between the coffee plants to spot the white van at the top of the hill. They’d left a lookout with a rifle, which confirmed his suspicions. Maggie was in there, and possibly Quinn.
He knew a way in now, but to get there without being seen by the guard, he’d have to go the long way, per Lola’s directions.
He crouched low between two rows of plants. When the rifleman turned the other way, he ran in the opposite direction, careful not to rustle a leaf in the silence that hung over the hills. He didn’t stop until he’d circled a quarter of a mile, and could see the back of the hacienda.
The office was in the back, Lola said, running the entire length of the house. There were bedrooms on the sides, and a main room in the front. The balcony, designed to look out over the entire plantation, was built out of the roof in the front, reached by circular outdoor stairs on the side of the house. And if Lola was telling the truth, there was access from the balcony into the attic, built into the roof tiles.
Getting up there without being seen would be the trick. He’d never make it up the stairs unobserved. But if he crossed the roof from the back, he could drop onto the balcony and then sneak into the house.
He crawled, flat to the ground, toward the covered porch, scanning the windows and listening for any sounds.
Silence.
When he reached the porch he slithered up, staying well below any windows, which were closed tight in the air-conditioned house, as Lola had told him they would be. They were also locked, along with the one door into the house, all with multiple dead bolts. The office looked deserted when he peered in, so he hoisted himself o
nto the windowsill and grabbed hold of the thick decorative wood trim at the top, pulling himself up without a noise.
Using a wooden window divider as a foothold, he reached up to the gutter and pulled himself higher, getting his other foot on the top of the window. The gutter bent under his weight, but he made it onto the roof and started working his way over the hot terra-cotta barrel tiles. Even this early in the morning, they scorched his hands and warmed through his clothes.
Dan crested the roof peak and looked down at the balcony. He’d be in the guard’s view for about a minute, so he’d have to move fast before the guard turned. He scooted across the roof tiles and a loose one slipped, scraping downward until Dan snagged it, just before it could tumble and crash below.
The guard jumped off the van but didn’t turn.
Dan held the wayward tile in one hand, and gripped for his life with the other. He couldn’t pull out his weapon even if he wanted to take a shot. But the guard stared down the driveway in the opposite direction.
Dan risked moving again, still holding the tile, finishing the crawl one-handed. But he made it, reaching between the curved wooden balustrades to silently place the tile on its side. Then he hoisted himself over the railing and landed right on the spot Lola had promised would get him into the house.
There was the small door, a crawl-through to an attic. He pressed one side but nothing happened. Then the other side, and the door slipped open.
Score one for Lola.
He crawled partway into the dark attic, using the light from the small opening to scan the floor. Where was the hatch above the closet? As he pulled his whole body through, the door closed behind him and eliminated all the light. He turned to reopen it, giving a good shove, but it had jammed shut. Just as he thrust his shoulder into it, a scream of pure, raw despair penetrated the attic and sliced through him.
Maggie.
One wrong step, one noise, and he’d give himself away. And Maggie, already screaming for her life, would be dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MAGGIE WAILED, INCAPABLE of staying calm. What would that monster do to Quinn?
Joel threw her into a bedroom, slamming the door and shoving her so hard she reeled.
“Shut up. You won’t hear what’s happening out there.” “I don’t want to hear!” she screamed, throwing herself at him, ready to face his gun to save her son. He easily knocked her back, the impact throwing her onto the bed.
He stood over her, broad, thick, and far too muscular for her to possibly fight, pointing the gun at her. Did he think she cared that he could kill her? It would just put her out of her misery.
From the living room she heard a thud, and Quinn yelled.
She closed her eyes and stifled a cry of her own; then Joel’s knee jammed between her legs. He waved the gun up and down over her body.
“It could have been me, you know.”
What was he talking about?
“Who got to fuck the girlfriend. One of us had to.”
She clenched the bedspread to keep from punching his face with hatred. It would only cost her. She closed her eyes and tried to hear Quinn.
“We flipped a coin, and of course Gallagher won.” He kneed her harder, right in the crotch. “Thought he liked you, didn’t you? Thought he was so enamored with your spiky hair and all your earrings that he just couldn’t keep his hands off you?”
She turned her head, willing him to stop, waiting for the next sound from Quinn.
He froze the gun right over her heart, just as Quinn yelped. What was happening to him?
“We laughed our asses off, too, cause neither of us really wanted to stick it to the skinny teenager with no tits.” He rubbed the gun over her breasts.
Vomit rose but she swallowed, refusing to let him know he could make her sick. If he raped her, he’d lose control. Then she’d get the gun, kill him, and save Quinn.
He replaced the gun with his other hand, cupping her breast. “That Gallagher knows just what to say to women. Fucking world-class liar. Bet he told you he likes ‘em small.”
She refused to react, but that just made him squeeze harder. “They’re a little bigger now, but still not in Gallagher’s league. Bet he fed you some good lines these past few weeks—told you how he couldn’t resist you, how he had to have you, no matter what the risk right under Ramon’s nose. Did he Maggie? Did he shovel that bullshit on you again?”
She just stared at him. Her heart ached. Her body ached. Her soul ached. All for her son. Did Sancere think this could make it any worse?
“Or did you believe him, Maggie?” He gripped her so hard, pain shot straight through to her head. “Did you believe that he risked his life just to fuck you in that shed? Did you?”
She bit her lip and tasted blood.
“Did you fall for it again, Maggie?” He was so close, she could smell his stale, hot breath. “Did you? Tell me!” He dug his fingers deeper.
She refused to react, refused to give him the satisfaction.
“He didn’t even like you, you know that? You were work, sweetheart. A means to an end. Don’t you know that?”
He ripped her shirt up, exposing her, staring at her, his lips quivering.
Quinn hollered, louder this time. And oddly hollow. She’d heard him scream in pain before, but this was different. This was unreal. Oh God, this wasn’t happening.
“You think he really wanted you?” Sancere spat on her bare breast. “He could have anyone, that son of a bitch. You think he’d want a runaway whore like you?”
Maggie closed her eyes and thought about Quinn as a toddler. A baby. She should have told Dan more about their child before he died. Before they all died.
“He had to fuck you so you’d tell him everything we needed to know.”
Please, Baba, please make this stop.
“It was his job.” He slammed her legs open with his knees and pushed his crotch against her. She was no match for his weight and power, crushed as he yanked at her hair so hard she felt it separate from her scalp. “We flipped a coin.”
Then she heard another thud, closer. Above them? Did he drop his gun?
“Heads you get her . . .” He ground his body against her as he growled out the words. “Tails I get her. You know what he said when he won the flip?”
She just closed her eyes.
“He said, ‘I lost the toss, Joel.’ He lost and had to fuck you for the family secrets.” He started to laugh, a vicious, low growl. “That’s right. He lost.”
Another thump. Was that in the closet? In the room? She pushed against Sancere with all her strength, but it was useless.
“He lost.” He slammed his body against hers.
“He lost.” Something crashed behind him.
“He lo—”
Suddenly, he was off her, lifted like a rag doll. Maggie blinked at the unexpected reprieve, opening her eyes and seeing . . .
Dan. He hoisted Joel up with one hand and cracked his fist in his face with the other. As he doubled over, Dan ripped out his gun and aimed it right at his heart.
“You sickening little worm.” Dan put the gun at his forehead. “Tell her you’re lying!”
Maggie rolled off the bed and dove for the door. “Quinn!” The door was locked from the outside. Frantic, she shook the handle.
“Tell her, you son of a bitch!” Dan demanded.
“Dan!” she screamed. “Quinn’s out there. Viejo’s torturing him!”
Dan shoved Sancere onto the bed, taking his gun. “Here.” He held it out to her, pinning Sancere with his knee and pistol. “Shoot off the lock.”
She held the weapon in two hands and tried to squeeze, but it was nothing like her .22. Grunting, she used both index fingers, pulling as hard as she could on the trigger.
“I . . . can’t . . . do . . . it.”
Dan was next to her in one step and grabbed the gun in his left hand, never taking his eye or his own gun off Sancere, and blew the lock off.
She threw the door open and l
unged into the living room to see . . . nothing.
“Quinn!” she screamed. “Where are you?”
She heard a shot, and froze in horror, then realized it came from behind her, where she’d left Dan with a gun on Sancere.
All she could do was stare at a pool of blood, rich and red and fresh, spilled over the orange tile floor. She put her hands up to her mouth and screamed. “Quinn!”
His mom’s scream sent shivers through Quinn—but nothing like what the crazy old man was doing. Freaking killing himself, and making him watch!
Every time he looked away or closed his eyes, the crazed Viejo picked up a gun and aimed it at Quinn.
“Mira esto, muchacho!” What did that mean? Watch me, boy?
The guy slipped deeper into Spanish with every cut into his own wrists, telling Quinn to scream as he forced him into another room and locked the door.
Now Quinn sat here, trapped by a flesh-cutting lunatic standing over him.
“You make me bleed, cabrón!” Viejo growled. “Your bastard blood makes my heart bleed.”
“I’m sorry,” Quinn managed, tearfully. “I’m really sorry. But, please. My mom—”
Warm blood dripped onto Quinn’s torn sleep pants, and above him, the old man brandished the knife.
“Scream for her,” he hissed. “Make her writhe in pain, like she gave me.”
Quinn just stared, dumbfounded at all the blood.
“Scream! Loud!” The knife grazed his neck.
Oh, shit. He gave it his best holler, trying to sound like he was in pain.
“Not good enough!” Viejo pressed the tip harder.
“Okay, okay!” Quinn let out a wail he thought matched his mom’s.
That satisfied Viejo for a second. “Now you watch me die.”
“No. Please, no.” He squeezed his eyes shut.
“You were going to be the heir to all of this.” The old man waved the knife around. “Ramon’s son. My grandson. Why aren’t you my grandson?” He screamed the question in Quinn’s face.
Wasn’t he Ramon’s son? Mom was pregnant, and he was her boyfriend . . .
Quinn’s hands gripped the armrest. Just die, you old rotten bastard. Let me go.
“I’m so sorry. Please. Don’t kill yourself.” Although that was better than killing Quinn.
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