Sinclair Justice

by Colleen Shannon

  Ross smiled, amused even in these extreme circumstances. “Atta girl . . . We time this right and we’ll have backup.” They visually searched every square inch of ground around the oak tree, but if there was a tunnel, it was very well hidden.

  Ross switched to watching Tomás and saw that he was now focused intently on a hillock of raised dirt and grass next to the tree. Ross inched back up, resting his Ed Brown, with its night sight, on the slope to steady his aim as he focused on that spot, too.

  Tension rippled through him like an electrical current as the two Chechens shoved the general roughly into the back of the Jeep. They were obviously expecting their leader any moment.

  Emm . . . come on, baby. Show yourself. Your sister’s safe. Mission accomplished. Time to wrap up these assholes.

  Inside the dank, dark cavity, Emm’s questing toes finally felt something mushy. Ground. She stopped abruptly, disoriented, for the lighting was even dimmer here. The pistol pressed into her back again, and she almost turned on Cervantes, but the time wasn’t yet right. She moved forward slowly, carefully, following the impatient hand that gestured to the side. Finally, she saw the ladder attached to the tunnel and began to climb. She heard a rush of air and knew he must have released a latch because a widening opening appeared above her head, starlight and even a smiling bright moon peering down.

  She climbed faster, hoping, praying Ross and Chad were on the other side of that hatch.

  As Chad and Ross watched, Tomás jerked his head at the two Chechens and then went to stand at the side of the tree, tensely staring down. The Chechens poked Abby in the ribs, but she was an experienced operative and knew better than to get into that car, especially when the grounds were filled with US agents. She said something in Spanish, but they answered in Russian, poking her harder in the ribs with their machine gun barrels, hard enough to send her off balance as they tried to force her into the Jeep.

  “I’ll take the tall guy in the suit,” Chad whispered.

  “I’ll take Tomás,” Ross said. If he was right that Abby was about to make a move, she was closest to the plump Chechen.

  She pretended to stumble against the side of the car. Ross saw her gaze sweep the hilltop. He took the chance to wave his arm and thought she must have seen him, even in his camouflage. She seemed to bend over, winded. Ross also saw her reach to the back of her leg for the small pistol he knew she kept there.

  As she did so, Emm’s head appeared from a hole in the ground. Tomás slung his gun on the strap over his shoulder to roughly pull her into the open.

  Cervantes also clambered out of the hole. His son helped him up the last step and then turned his gun on Emm. Cervantes said something sharply. Tomás let the barrel sag toward the ground. He ran toward the Jeep’s driver-side door, and Ross knew they were about to force Emm into the car, too. But her gaze had gone toward Abby, seeing her bent toward her ankle.

  When Cervantes pushed her between the shoulder blades, she whirled on him. She’d shifted her weight back on one foot and turned to grab his arm, trying to force it up as she grappled for his gun, swinging around, using her entire body weight for leverage.

  “Now!” Ross climbed to the top of the slope and scooted downward on his rear and back. Chad did the same, right next to him. The slope was steep enough that gravity did the work of pulling them down, and they could brace their elbows against their chests and sight carefully as they slid. A cascade of rocks and disturbed vegetation heralded their arrival.

  They fired, but it was still dark; they were moving on their backs and their targets were at least fifty feet away. Their first couple of shots missed the mark, but stealth was no longer an option.

  All four drug dealers looked up. Machine guns turned in their direction. Abby straightened, having used her bound hands to slip her small pistol from her ankle holster. The stout, short Chechen got off a few rounds that sprayed dirt and pebbles next to Ross, but then she’d fired at point-blank range into his meaty thigh. He screamed and fell to his knees. She smacked him over the head with her gun butt and he went down.

  Ross had ignored the shots striking uncomfortably close and focused on the one thing that could save them all: accuracy. He needed to think not of his own mortality, or even Emm’s struggle, at this moment. He needed to think only of his front sight. Ignoring the rocks and thorns piercing even through his heavy pants, ignoring the grunts and insults coming from Emm’s direction as she fought Cervantes for his pistol, Ross narrowed his gaze on a tiny, bright dot, iridescent in the moonlight—his front sight. Even when bullets sprayed around him, he focused on the little dot centered on the piece of forehead he could see above the Jeep as Tomás braced his machine gun on the roof and fired at them.

  Bracing his elbows on his chest to steady his aim, he squeezed off a shot. He was rewarded with a spray of red mist and other heavier matter as Tomás’s head exploded. He fell behind the Jeep, the machine gun sliding harmlessly off the roof.

  Without a pause, Ross next moved his aim toward Cervantes. They were slowing now as they neared the bottom of the slope, allowing them to aim more carefully.

  It also made them easier targets.

  Ross tried to aim at Cervantes, scared to death Emm would lose the struggle with the drug lord, but Cervantes and Emm kept switching places as they fought.

  Chad had missed the tall Chechen the first couple of times, allowing the man to chitter slugs at them. One glanced off Chad’s heavy chest plate, ricocheting into the night. Chad was disoriented for a second, but another shot pinged off a rock right by his ear, bringing him back to his senses. He took a deep breath and did as Ross had done, wagering his life on his front sights. As he squeezed off another shot, he saw the Chechen aim a fusillade at Ross. He heard Ross cry out. Chad’s next shot caught the Chechen in the neck. He went down, also dropping his gun, but Chad was a few seconds too late. Ross had been hit.

  As they both slid to a stop at the bottom of the slope, Chad moved to turn toward his partner, but meanwhile Emm had finally lost her precarious grip against Cervantes’s brutal power. Abby had turned her small pistol in Cervantes’s direction, so she didn’t see the half-dazed Chechen on the ground when he reached for her ankle to pull her off balance. Then she and the Chechen were grappling for her weapon, but Abby, without compunction, kicked him in his thigh wound. He screamed and shrank away. This time, when she clocked him, she used his fallen machine gun butt. He went down and stayed down.

  While she was fighting the Chechen, Chad leaped up and rounded the tree so he could have a clear shot at Cervantes, who was turning his pistol on Emm. She fell to the ground as if defeated, but when Cervantes pointed the gun down at her, she grabbed up a small, sharp rock and rammed it upward into his ankle. He cried out, his gun hand wobbling, and Chad was able to shoot to wound, not kill. He caught Cervantes in the gun arm, and the pistol finally fell to the ground.

  It landed right next to Emm . . . She looked around for the first time, seeing Ross lying still, blood trickling under him into the dirt. She grabbed up the gun and scrambled to her feet, pointing at Cervantes. “You sorry son of a bitch,” she said, and her finger tightened on the trigger.

  Cradling his wounded arm with his other hand, Cervantes cast a quick glance toward the Jeep and must have seen the remnants of his son. Grief distorted his face for a moment, and then he snarled, “Chupa mi verga, puta fea.” And then, in English, “Shoot.”

  As Emm’s finger tightened, “Emm, no,” came a weak plea from Ross’s direction. “I don’t want to lose you to the Mexican court system. We need him alive.”

  Chad had reached the two of them, and he gently pulled the pistol from Emm. “I have the asshole. See to Ross.” When Cervantes turned to flee, Chad used the butt of the .357 to pistol whip him a couple of times, forcing him to his knees. Chad cuffed him. He looked around, seeing Abby had the rest of the situation under control.

  She’d obviously found a knife and sawed through her own bonds, and was now doing the same with the general’s
, who’d climbed back out of the Jeep. When the plump Chechen on the ground stirred, the general reared back his leg and booted him in the forehead. The Chechen went limp again. The general spat on him.

  Meanwhile, Emm had run to Ross, still sprawled at the bottom of the slope. She pulled frantically at his body armor until she’d bared his t-shirt. His shoulder wound was still bleeding. She pulled Ross’s shirt up and used it as a bandage, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. The other slug had grazed his side, leaving a raw, oozing line but no bullet hole.

  Chad forced Cervantes up the slope. “I’ll send the medic. Lie still, Ross.” And to Emm, “He’ll be fine.”

  When Cervantes dragged his feet, Chad kicked him in the butt. “I’d purely love to plug you, so keep it up!” Cervantes didn’t know all the words, but he knew the tone . . . reluctantly, he climbed.

  Abby smiled at the pair on the ground as the general tied up the wounded Chechen. More sirens blared up the hillside, and they knew the situation was, finally, under control.

  Ross’s hand, grimy and dotted with a few sprays of blood, reached shakily toward Emm’s head. He stroked down over the side of her hair, which was stiff and standing up, darker than the other side, with the blood from her scalp wound. “We’ll start a new style,” he teased. His voice was steady, as strong as ever.

  Satisfied he’d be okay, she sat back on her heels and gave him a brilliant smile back. “What’s that? Zombie chic?”

  Ross ignored her protests and levered himself to a sitting position, wincing a bit but looking steadier every minute. He fumbled inside the jacket she’d removed and unzipped an inner pocket. “No, how to propose in extreme situations.”

  Emm went very still.

  Abby knew she was decidedly de trop and turned to open the back of the Jeep to begin searching it. The general gave the pair a curious look and climbed the slope to assess his men. For the moment, the couple were alone, or as alone as they could be surrounded by dead and wounded men.

  Ross pulled out the small box he’d brought along, just in case. It had been rattling around in his inner flak jacket pocket, along with the spare bullets for his Ed Brown. Appropriately enough, he decided, his mouth quirking. No nonsense mixed with the sublime.

  Just like Emm. He waited for her response.

  She stared at the ruby and diamond ring winking at her in the moonlight. Ross had had several nice rings left to him by his paternal grandmother, but this was his favorite. Three carats. The center Burmese ruby, virtually impossible to find today in this clarity, was as perfect as the woman he was gifting it to, and it was surrounded by brilliant white diamonds. When she still didn’t answer, Ross pulled the ring out and lifted her finger.

  “I know this is a bit sudden, but hell, it may ease the way with the Mexican authorities. We’re in a very macho country.” He began to get nervous when she still stared down, mute. “Besides, this is the best way I know of to hold you close, where I can keep an eye on you. Handcuffed to my bed . . . pregnant and barefoot in my kitchen.” He was deliberately goading her, trying to get a rise out of her. But his fingers began to tremble a bit when she still sat there, on her heels, staring at the ring. Was she going to say no?

  Dear lord, he’d never even considered that possibility. “Wow, if I’d known this was the way to shut you up, I’d have stolen the Hope Diamond,” he joked. Still nothing.

  Finally he added, “It’s my sworn duty, too, in the interests of protecting my fellow law enforcement officers. Now you’ve helped catch one of the world’s most dangerous drug dealers, you may tackle the Mafia next, God forbid.”

  To his huge relief, Emm finally stirred. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard.

  He kissed her back, not even feeling the pain in his side. They were sweaty, dirty, blood streaked, sore, and Americans in a foreign country, but no kiss had ever satisfied either of them as much. When they drew apart, she looked at him seriously. “What about Elaine?”

  “Who the hell is Elaine?” he said and slid the ring on her finger. “What about your career?”

  She couldn’t avoid a flicker of regret, but she said, “If I have to choose, I choose you.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to choose. I’ll have a heckuva wedding present for you.” And to shut her up again in that most pleasurable of ways, he kissed her, sideways this time. Deeply.

  As the medic clambered down the slope toward them, he found the couple entwined in a passionate embrace and slowed his pace a bit. Ross would obviously live.

  Ross would. And, well . . .

  And there, beneath a smiling half moon, Ross Sinclair pledged his troth in the age-old way, kissing Emm through blood and grit and grime, which somehow made the vow a bit more sacred. Even if it was on foreign soil. Literally.

  CHAPTER 16

  A few days later, Emm carried a big bouquet into Yancy’s hospital room. Her sister was sitting up, a drip still attached to her arm, but color had begun to come back into her face. Emm had visited a few hours after the gunfight, relieved when the doctors told her they’d reached her in time, and that Yancy’s wound had slowed to a trickle.

  Emm and Ross had checked into the nicest hotel in Mexico City and cleaned themselves up, teasing each other about comparing scars. Then they’d been taken to police headquarters for a very long, tedious debrief that lasted almost two more days. Yancy had also been quizzed as soon as she was conscious, and her information, she’d learn later, would lead to the arrest of the major players in the Los Lobos cartel. As the general told her, she had suffered greatly, but her insight would save many innocent young women from the same fate.

  Yancy had turned away, tears in her eyes, and the general had called for Emm. Emm did what she could to comfort her sister, but tears dripped from her own eyes because there was really nothing to say to assuage the horrific loss of a child, especially in such a brutal way. They had at least been able to recover Jennifer’s body, and she’d be traveling home with them.

  Now, a few days later, the entire team had been cleared to leave the country, including Yancy, and they were there to travel with her in the van to the DEA jet.

  There was only one big question. . . .

  “Where do you want to go, honey?” Emm asked, sitting next to her sister to hold her hand. “Ross has asked me to marry him, and he has several guest cabins behind his house, if you’d rather have your privacy, but we’d love for you to stay with us awhile in Amarillo. And . . . there’s a place for Jennifer, too, if you decide to stay, or we can transport her back to Baltimore.”

  Fully herself finally, Yancy turned her cool green gaze on Ross. “When Emm loves, she’s Gibraltar. I can be a pain in the ass, and she’s the only one on earth who never gave up on me.”

  He shifted his feet a bit, flushing, and said only, “I probably don’t deserve her. But I love her and will spend the rest of my life trying to make her happy.” He caught Emm’s hand. “And we both want a family, so we can pass on what we’ve learned the hard way. We . . . hope you’ll stay with us awhile so we can get to know one another.”

  She relaxed a bit, staring over Emm’s head. “I . . . don’t know. I don’t know where I want to go, or what I want to do. Jennifer . . . we both believe in cremation, anyway.”

  Emm bit her lip, looked for Ross’s approval. He nodded.

  “Yancy,” Emm said, “they’ve arrested Brett Umarov. Inside the compound, they found tons of evidence linking him to Los Lobos. Ross says they have enough to send him away for a very long time. And if he’s an accessory to . . . murder . . .” She tailed off, hesitating to mention Jennifer’s name.

  Yancy looked at Emm. “And Curt? Was he involved, too?”

  Ross nodded. “It seems Mr. Tupperman is the one who brought the Chechens to Umarov as possible business partners. The funds we found in his account were not from Los Lobos. They were from Eastern European mobsters interested in working with the cartels. Because of his travels and his exposés, plus his fluency in Spanish, he was able to brok
er the deal and help with money laundering. For a piece of the pie. That’s why Cervantes didn’t know him. Umarov was the contact; Curt was the facilitator.”

  “Abby—I mean, a colleague of Ross’s,” Emm said, “found a case of money in the back of the Jeep. Inside was Curt’s Belize bank account and routing numbers. He tried to slip away after everything was over and had just about convinced the DEA he was innocent when Abby brought the case to them.”

  Ross finished simply, “The Mexican authorities requested and got the US attorney general’s permission so that Curt can be tried in the Mexican courts. He won’t do his time in a cushy federal pen. He’ll be in a Mexican prison for a long time.”

  Yancy smiled, but it was still a wan one.

  Emm swallowed. “If you want to go back to Baltimore, I’m okay with that, Yance. I’ll even go with you for a while.”

  Ross glanced sharply at her, then away, when assessing green eyes turned in his direction.

  Yancy smiled, really smiled, with a flicker of her old mischief, for the first time since coming to the hospital. “Bluffing again, sis? You still suck at it.”

  “Hey, I learned from the best . . . You should have seen my ante with that asshole drug dealer. It was a doozy. We’re both still here, aren’t we?” She carefully caught her sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Yance. . . . If only I could have come sooner.”

  Yancy turned her face away, her voice so soft Emm had to strain to hear her. “It was too late for Jennifer anyway. She never would have been the same. . . .”

  Emm squeezed her hand harder. “At least you’re safe.”