by Max Austin
Penny shook her head. “You’ve got it wrong. We’re on your side.”
“Then why won’t you let me call 911?”
“Why don’t you settle down, Tina? Sit there at the table.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?”
Penny’s gaze went steely. “Just shut up until Vic gets back.”
“You can’t make me shut up. And you can’t hold me here against my will.”
Penny raised the pistol so it pointed directly at Tina’s face.
“Wanna bet?”
Chapter 41
Ryan flexed his leg muscles and stretched his arms as much as the handcuffs allowed. The TV still babbled in the next room, waves of canned laughter from what sounded like Saturday morning cartoons. No one had come to check on him. He couldn’t wait forever.
“Hey!” he yelled. “I need to piss!”
Nothing. He took a deep breath to yell louder.
“Hey in there! I need a bathroom!”
The television’s volume dropped a notch.
“Bathroom! Right now!”
The TV went even quieter, and Ryan heard footfalls. He tipped his head back so he could see out from under the hood a little, could see the dusty floor in front of his bare feet.
Two fat sneakers shuffled into view. The high-tops had once been white, but were now grungy gray. Baggy jeans piled on top of them. The feet stopped, and a blue plastic bucket dropped to the floor.
A gruff voice said, “Use that.”
“How can I do that with my hands cuffed behind me?”
“Hold still.”
The feet shuffled out of view as the man circled behind him. He grabbed Ryan’s left wrist and undid the cuff. Before Ryan could make a move, the kidnapper snapped the cuff onto the frame of the chair.
“You can use your left hand,” the gruff voice said. “Call me when you’re done.”
The sneakers shuffled back into view. One of them nudged the blue bucket.
“Go ahead.”
Ryan yanked the pillowcase off his head and tossed it away, leaving him face-to-face with a squat Hispanic man in his thirties. He had a wide mouth roofed by a wispy mustache, and he wore a satin New York Yankees jacket with knit cuffs that hung halfway over his hands.
Ryan kicked him in the knee, which bent at an unnatural angle. The man went down howling. Ryan managed to punch him with a quick left on his way to the floor.
“Shep!” the Yankees fan yelled from the floor. “Shep! Help!”
Ryan kicked him in the gut, and the fallen man gasped and coughed. Ryan bent over him, going through his pockets for handcuff keys.
Bam! The bedroom door banged open, and a bullet-headed man filled the doorway. Shep’s black sweater was tight across muscular shoulders and over his gut, which ballooned over the waistband of his faded jeans. He was well over six feet tall, and probably weighed two-sixty, but Ryan thought he had a chance if the fool came close enough.
The bald man raised his hand, clutching something black. Ryan at first took it for a gun, but then he saw two chrome points jutting from the end. Blue electricity danced between them, crackling.
Shep lunged with the stun gun. Ryan flinched backward, just out of range. The big man lunged again. Ryan pivoted at the waist so the stun gun just missed his shoulder. He swiveled back the other way, bringing his left around, burying the fist in his captor’s ribs.
Shep stumbled backward.
Leaning on the chair for balance, Ryan took a chance on a roundhouse kick. His bare heel connected with the back of Shep’s wrist, hard enough to knock the stun gun out of his hand. He shouted and clutched his wrist as the weapon clattered across the floor.
The other man grabbed at Ryan’s leg, trying to drag him down. Ryan kicked him in the chin, clacking his teeth together and knocking him cold.
Shep’s scream of pain quickly turned into a bellow of rage and he swiped at Ryan with his uninjured arm, the big fist whistling within an inch of his chin.
Enough, Ryan thought. I can’t let this guy throw punches. He might get lucky.
His weight balanced on his right leg, Ryan quickly kicked the man in the groin. Twice.
Shep dropped to his knees, clutching his jewels, his eyes wide with surprise and pain.
Now he was within reach.
Ryan put all his weight into a haymaker that caught Shep just under the ear. He fell over, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Panting for breath, Ryan went through pockets until he found keys. Then he freed himself from the cuffs and danced away from the two men sprawled on the floor. Neither moved.
He spotted the stun gun against the wall and picked it up. For a second, he considered giving these assholes a zap or two, but he knew it might jolt them awake. Better to make his getaway.
He stepped through the doorway into the next room, holding the stun gun before him in case someone waited in there. But there was no one. Just a brown sofa, a coffee table covered in snack bags and paper cups, and a big-screen TV, flickering with a SpongeBob SquarePants cartoon.
White sheets were piled on the floor behind the sofa, and Ryan saw that other pieces of furniture were still covered with dustcloths.
Then he recognized the house. It was the same house where he’d met Vic, the one by the nature center. How did he end up back here? What did it mean?
Ryan shook his head. Plenty of time to sort it out later. For now, he needed to get out of here. The keys he’d taken included one labeled “Ford,” and it fit the ignition of a black SUV parked outside. The model’s name made Ryan smile: the Escape.
He slammed his bare foot on the accelerator and burned rubber.
Chapter 42
Vic parked next to a fat cottonwood just off Rio Grande Boulevard at a spot where one of the irrigation ditches crossed under the road.
Most of the ditches are lined by dirt lanes so farmers can travel along them to open and close the gates that direct the water. Valley residents use the system of paths for nature strolls and horseback rides. Vic rarely got down here himself. He walked for exercise a few times a week, but he preferred concrete beneath his feet.
He was glad he wasn’t wearing his expensive loafers now. The lane along the ditch was dusty and uneven and dented by hooves. He’d left the heavy coat and other cold-weather gear in the Cadillac, but he still wore the boots and jeans, the long underwear and loose denim shirt. Just another Saturday stroller, out enjoying nature, a pistol stashed in his belt.
Yellow cottonwood leaves crunched underfoot as Vic angled toward Zamora’s fortress. The bosque underbrush had shed its leaves, too, so the tall pyracantha hedge stood out as a wall of green sprinkled with orange berries. A narrow ditch, dry this time of year, split off from the main channel and ran thirty feet to a three-foot gap in the hedge.
Vic slowed at the gap, trying to see what lay beyond. A wedge of winter-yellow lawn. The white mansion glaring in the sunshine, nearly as tall as the ancient cottonwoods that reached naked arms toward the tiled roof. A broad patio off the back, stepping down to the lawn in three stone terraces.
Vic got just a glimpse of the black-clad sentry who stood guard outside the patio doors. Sunglasses and an automatic rifle, just like the men at the hunting lodge. He wondered how many others Zamora had stationed around the property.
He walked another hundred feet, in case someone was watching, then turned and went back the way he’d come
It wouldn’t be a rifle shot this time. He’d have to shoot his way onto the property, which meant pistols with silencers. Take out as many of Zamora’s people as necessary to get inside the house. Then go room to room, putting down anybody who got in his way, until he reached the drug dealer and finished him.
He paused as he passed the gap in the hedge. The sentry was still there, and he was looking in his direction, so Vic couldn’t stop. Didn’t matter. He’d seen what he needed to see. Enough to make a half-assed plan. The rest would be guts and luck.
First he needed to go back to the Cadillac to
get ammunition and guns.
Lots of guns.
Chapter 43
Ryan smoldered as the SUV crept into the parking lot of the Desert Rose Motel. His Mustang was not parked where he left it. He jumped out, the asphalt cold and gritty under his feet, and went to the door of room eleven. He banged on it a few times, but no answer came from inside.
Where was Tina? Where was his car? Why weren’t the police all over this room? Hadn’t Tina reported that he’d been kidnapped?
Ryan looked around, but no one was watching him. Hardly any traffic. He climbed into the Ford Escape and backed out of the parking lot. He screeched around two corners, then went straight a couple of blocks before finally jouncing into the gravel driveway of Penny Randall’s house.
His Mustang was at the end of the driveway, next to the carport where Vic normally kept his car. The Cadillac was nowhere to be seen. Ryan ran to the apartment door anyway, knocking on it, calling out for Vic.
A screen door banged behind him. He turned to see Penny step out onto the little stoop that jutted from the kitchen door. She was wearing a blue bathrobe.
“Look who’s here,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Tina said you were snatched—”
“Where is she?” he demanded. “Where’s Vic?”
“She’s inside,” Penny said. “Vic is, um, out looking for you. Come in and I’ll tell you about it.”
She went back into the house. Ryan hurried across the bare yard, rocks sharp underfoot, then up the cold concrete steps.
The door opened directly into the kitchen. Wooden table with four chairs to his left, sink and stove to his right. A tile floor that wasn’t much warmer than outdoors.
Penny stood behind the table, looking him over.
“What happened? They turn you loose?”
“Where’s Tina?”
“She’s in the bathroom. Tell me what happened.”
“Two guys were holding me, blindfolded and handcuffed. I tricked them into uncuffing me, then I roughed ’em up a little and got away. Took their car. Should’ve taken their shoes.”
He folded his arms across his chest, trying to warm up.
“I’ll get you some socks in a second,” Penny said. “Those guys, did you kill them?”
“Just a little tae kwon do. They’ll live. But here’s the weird part: They were holding me at that vacant house where I met Vic. Don’t you own that house?”
“Not exactly. It’s tied up in court.”
“Why did the kidnappers take me there?”
“Beats me,” Penny said. “Maybe they followed you there the first time and saw that it was still furnished and all.”
“Nobody followed me,” he said. “Maybe they followed Vic.”
“I doubt that,” Penny said. “Vic’s too careful.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s been worried sick about you. Tina, too. She came straight here after they grabbed you. I’ve been looking after her.”
“She’s in the bathroom? Tina!”
His voice boomed in the hallway that branched off the kitchen. A door at the far end flung open and Tina burst out of it, laughing and crying and screaming all at the same time. She sprinted the length of the hall and slammed against him in a ferocious hug.
“It’s okay, Tina. I’m okay.”
“I knew you’d come for me,” she said into his chest. “I knew you’d save me.”
“Save you? Save you from what?”
Tina pointed an accusatory finger at Penny. “She held a gun on me!”
Penny shook her head.
“It’s right there in her pocket!”
Now that she mentioned it, Ryan could see the butt of a pistol jutting from the pocket of Penny’s robe. Looked like one of Vic’s favored Rugers.
“I had to do something,” Penny said. “She was hysterical.”
“She’s lying! I was trying to call the police!”
Penny rolled her eyes. “I told her she couldn’t do that. She’d put you in danger. Put Vic in danger.”
“Where the hell is Vic?”
“He went looking for you,” Tina said. “At that white house in the North Valley. I saw a photo—”
“Whose house is it?”
“A guy named Joaquin Zamora,” Penny said. “He’s a drug dealer who’s got it in for Vic.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
She glanced at the clock above the stove. “More than an hour ago. He’s probably on his way back by now.”
“Call him,” Ryan said. “Tell him I got loose.”
“He never answers the phone when he’s working,” she said. “Doesn’t want the distraction.”
“Try it anyway.”
Penny went to the phone on the wall and punched numbers.
Ryan put his arm around Tina’s shoulders and whispered in her ear. “I’ll take you back to the motel, then I’ll go see if I can help Vic.”
“She said it’s too late—”
Penny hung up the phone. “Went to voice mail. I told you he wouldn’t answer. He’s out of contact. Doing what he does best.”
Ryan said, “Tell me how to find Zamora’s house.”
Chapter 44
Half an hour passed before Vic got back to the gap in the hedge, but the sentry was still in place on the patio. Black sunglasses, black clothes, black gun. Bulky under his clothes. Probably wearing a Kevlar vest. Which meant a head shot if Vic wanted him to go quietly.
Shit. Couldn’t anything about this be easy?
Up close, the pyracantha was a tangle of stiff branches covered in waxy leaves and orange berries and three-inch-long thorns. It was, however, a row of plants, not a solid wall, and there were bound to be gaps. Vic crept along the hedge until he found a space between two branches, just wide enough for him to see the sentry, forty feet away on the patio, his rifle pointed at the ground while he busily picked his nose.
Vic thought about tossing something over the hedge, get the guard to come closer, but he quickly ruled that out. Zamora’s men were on full alert. The slightest noise was likely to be met with raking gunfire.
He pulled a silenced .22 from the back of his belt and gingerly snaked his arm through the gap in the bushes. Thorns raked his sleeve, but the denim protected his skin. Standing with his feet braced wide apart so he was the right height to see through the hole, Vic lined up the shot, the front sight even with the guard’s forehead.
The man beamed with success as he dislodged what he’d been mining in his nostril. Vic pulled the trigger. The sentry’s head snapped back and he crumpled to the ground. Bright blood blotted the white wall behind him; some spattered across the panes of the French doors, too. Vic froze, waiting for an alarm to go up inside the house, but nothing came.
One down.
He carefully extracted his arm, then walked briskly to the gap in the hedge. He stepped into the dry ditch, leaves crunching underfoot. Without hesitating, he strode across the lawn toward the patio, the elongated pistol alongside his thigh, the gym bag in his other hand.
No more sentries on this side of the house. Vic bent low as he reached the landscaped terraces that stepped up to the patio, in case someone happened to look out a window.
Movement to his right. A fat man came around the corner of the house. He wore baggy khakis and a plaid flannel shirt with the tails out. His eyes widened when he spotted Vic. He reached under his shirt, digging for a pistol at his belt.
Vic dropped to one knee, steadying himself. The .22 puffed, sending two grams of lead rocketing into the fat man’s neck. He grabbed at his throat with both hands. Blood spurted through his fingers. Vic adjusted his aim and fired again, hitting the man in the cheek, flattening him with hardly a sound.
Two down.
The broad patio was paved with square concrete tiles. The black-clad sentry lay on the far side in a pool of red. Blood flowed along the grout between the tiles, creeping across the patio in a geometric pattern.
Vic considered taking the sentry’s rifle. He might need rapid-fire for what was to come. But he’d have to pass in front of the French doors to get to the fallen man. Too much exposure. Instead, he tucked into a corner of the patio, stucco walls meeting behind him, pistol scanning back and forth in front of him.
Still no shouts or alarms, but it wouldn’t be long before someone came looking for the dead guards. Vic needed to find Zamora and get this finished.
Chapter 45
Tina wrung her hands, her back pressed against the motel room door, as if that would do any good, as if she could keep him from going.
“Don’t do this, Ryan. Don’t leave me alone again.”
He sat on the end of the bed, pulling on his black jeans. “I have to, hon. Get some stuff together and I’ll drop you at a different motel, where you’ll be safe.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
“I’ll be careful.” He began putting on his socks and boots. “Maybe it’ll be like Penny said. All over but the shouting.”
“I don’t believe Penny,” Tina said. “She’s been lying to us.”
“About what?”
“All of it. The kidnappers. The phone calls. Zamora.”
“How is that lying?”
“She’s hiding something. While you were gone, she was on the phone a lot, whispering with people other than Vic.”
“So?”
“Who was she calling in the middle of the night?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is right now. Vic’s risking his life because of me. I can’t leave him hanging.”
He lifted his black leather jacket off the back of a chair and slipped it on, settling its weight on his shoulders. He still wore the KISS ME shirt she’d bought for him, and it looked ridiculous with the biker jacket.
“You could be killed.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I thought you were dead already,” she said. “I thought I’d never see you again. Now you’re back with me, safe and sound. And you’re going to run off and get into a shoot-out with drug dealers.”