The Heart of a Stranger

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Tyler cursed. He could see how disturbed Yardley was. Apparently the ATF agent felt responsible in some way. Guilty for disbelieving an innocent man.

  Mercado had been pleading innocence all along, insisting he’d severed his ties with the mob.

  “So if Mercado isn’t dead, then he’s still in danger.”

  Yardley nodded. “As I said, we apprehended Valente, but that won’t save Mercado. Valente refuses to admit that he put a contract out on Mercado, let alone call off the hit.”

  Tyler cursed again, and Yardley seconded the motion.

  “So what’s the deal on this guy at the auto parts store?” he asked.

  “You got me. All I know is the woman he was with seemed crazy about him.”

  “I think we better question her,” the sheriff said.

  “I agree.” Yardley twisted a paperclip he found on Wainwright’s desk, then looked up at Tyler. “Do you think there’s a chance in hell this guy could actually be Mercado?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But he sure had the same vibe. And from a distance, he looked just like him.”

  “It’s worth a shot.” Yardley got to his feet. “Who’s the woman?”

  Tyler rose, offering the necessary information. “Her name is Lourdes Quinterez, and she owns a paint-breeding farm outside of town. Off the old road, past the dairy.”

  The sheriff reached for his hat. “Let’s go.”

  Tyler headed out the door with the rest of the group, wondering about Mercado.

  Would they find him at Lourdes’s ranch? Or was that man an innocent bystander, someone who only resembled the former Mafia underboss?

  Tyler drew a breath. By now, the real Ricky Mercado, the loyal ex-marine, the black sheep of the Fabulous Five, might already be dead.

  “Does it hurt, Mercado?”

  Ricky saw Cold Eyes staring at him.

  Blood seeped through his shirt, yet the bullet had barely grazed his shoulder.

  But hey, it hurt. Not desperately, but it stung.

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” he said it loud enough for Lourdes, Cáco, Amy and the twins to hear. They were still being held at gunpoint, still huddled on the kitchen floor. They’d screamed when he’d gotten shot, but they were quiet now, probably stunned with fear.

  Ricky was being kept in the dining room, and from his vantage point, he could barely see Lourdes, just the edge of her clothes, her pant legs, the soles of her boots.

  Cold Eyes sneered. “A flesh wound? No kidding? I wonder if the next one will do more damage.”

  So that was it. Cold Eyes was going to torture him, pump his arms and legs full of holes, make him hurt, make him bleed before the fatal shot.

  Most hit men didn’t spend a lot of time with their targets. But some did.

  Cold Eyes smiled. “What do you think of our insurance?”

  Ricky’s mouth went dry. Their insurance. Lourdes and her family.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were breaking the rules. The mob wasn’t supposed to harm innocent people, women and children who hadn’t done a damn thing.

  Ricky glanced at the shorter man. He stood like a soldier, like a trained killer, his crew cut standing at attention. One false move and he would fire at the hostages.

  The people Ricky loved.

  He couldn’t play the hero. He couldn’t attempt to overpower two armed men and not expect bullets to start flying.

  He had to think of something else, another way to keep everyone alive, to free Lourdes and her family. He knew the hit men wouldn’t leave witnesses. Once he was dead, the hostages wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “I’m getting bored,” Cold Eyes said. “Maybe I ought to shoot your other shoulder.”

  “No.” Ricky shook his head. “Don’t.”

  The other man cocked his brows. “Are you begging for mercy now? Is that what this is?”

  “No.” Ricky held his ground, using the only leverage he had left. “I’m offering you a deal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. A deal.” Ricky refused to grip his injured shoulder, to press his hand to the wound and stem the blood flow. He wouldn’t give Cold Eyes the satisfaction of seeing him acknowledge the pain. “You’ve already collected your money on me.” He knew the hit men had been paid in advance. He’d been with the mob long enough to know how these things worked. “And now I’m offering you the chance to make even more.”

  “I’ve heard this song and dance before. You’re not the first one who’s tried it.”

  Which told Ricky that Cold Eyes made a habit of torturing his victims, of taking pleasure in hearing their pleas to try to stay alive.

  “I have millions.”

  “So what? We can’t just walk away. Our lives wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel.”

  “I know that.” When a mob-hired hit man took a job, he was obligated to fill the contract. Or risk being executed himself. “But I can fake my own death, and you’ll get credit for the hit. I’ll change the way I look and disappear for good. No one will be the wiser. No one will know.”

  It was the only way, Ricky thought. The only way to keep Lourdes and her family alive.

  “What about the women and kids?” Shorty asked, insinuating himself into the conversation. “What’ll stop them from spilling the beans?”

  “Lourdes will do anything to keep her family safe,” Ricky said. “She’ll keep quiet. All of them will. And I’ll make provisions for them. I’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”

  “So you’ll pay them off, too?”

  “So to speak. Yeah.” The idea made him sick, but at this point, it was all he could do to save their lives, to convince the hit men Lourdes wouldn’t create a problem later.

  Cold Eyes shook his head. “You’re crazy, Mercado.”

  “No he’s not.” This came from Shorty. “He’s rich as sin, and he has the capability to pull this off. His uncle was one of the most respected bosses in the business.”

  “His uncle’s dead.”

  “He’s offering us a sweet deal,” Shorty went on to say.

  “It’s a trick.” Cold Eyes wasn’t buying. He wasn’t impressed with Ricky’s background, with his once-upon-a-time Mercado crime family status.

  “What trick?” Shorty argued. “He either dies or disappears. Moves to some fancy-ass island somewhere. Which would you choose?”

  “He’s jerking us around, you idiot. The first chance he gets, he’ll slit our throats.”

  Shorty cursed at Cold Eyes, and a verbal war erupted between them.

  The children started crying, the hit men’s raging voices scaring them beyond fear-choked whimpers.

  As blood soaked Ricky’s sleeve, he prayed the odds were in his favor. That Cold Eyes didn’t blow a gasket and shoot everyone, including Shorty—the hit man willing to accept Ricky’s offer.

  Willing to let them live.

  Something was wrong. Tyler and the rest of the group knew it from the first moment they’d arrived. There had been a struggle on the front porch, an abandoned broom, a shoe, toys that had been dropped and broken, a flowerpot tipped over. A path that led to the front door, not away from it.

  Someone had been dragged into the house, someone sweeping the porch. An older woman, from the orthopedic style of the shoe she’d lost in the scuffle. And children. God forbid, children.

  “We’ve got a hostage situation,” Tyler said.

  Yardley nodded, his gun already drawn.

  Voices drifted from the house. Youthful cries. A masculine argument.

  Colonel Westin volunteered to secure the rest of the ranch, to check the barns and outbuildings for other activity, then return as soon as possible. Yardley and Campbell took the rear of the house, with Yardley keeping his bride close by.

  The sheriff called for backup, and he and Tyler remained up front. Once everyone got a handle on the situation, on what part of the house the hostages were being held and if Mercado was with them, Tyler could make contact with his former marine buddy. />
  Providing he was still alive.

  As time passed, as the clock kept ticking, Ricky searched his mind for an option. Another plan. The argument between the hit men grew louder, more volatile.

  The children cried even harder.

  Ricky feared someone was going to get shot. Cold Eyes still had a 9mm aimed at Ricky, but he screamed at Shorty, who yelled right back.

  Shorty’s gun wavered a little, but Cold Eyes hand was sure and steady, even if his voice rose and fell.

  “Someone shut those brats up!” he snapped. “Or I’ll do it.”

  Lourdes must have reacted because the twins fell silent. After that, no sound came from the hostages.

  Not a single peep.

  Shorty tore into Cold Eyes with his temper. He wanted the money. He wanted Ricky’s millions.

  Ricky glanced toward the kitchen.

  He could still see Lourdes’s legs, her boots. He wanted to go to her, to hold her.

  But he couldn’t. He—

  A flash at the corner of the dining room window caught his eye. The blinds were open, just a crack, just enough to let a small trail of light inside.

  But this light was flickering. On. Off. On again.

  Cold Eyes didn’t notice, but the window was to his back.

  Ricky watched.

  Flash. Flash. Pause. A double flash.

  His heart pounded wildly.

  Someone from his old unit was here. The code they’d devised for private missions started up again. Ricky read the blinks of light. Murdoch. Westin. Sheriff. ATF. FBI. His heart pounded again. They were here to help. To free the hostages.

  Ricky lifted his hand and tapped his forehead, giving Murdoch a sign, letting him know the code came through. He couldn’t see Tyler Murdoch, but he knew the mercenary watched through the window.

  The flashes started again. They had someone at every entrance, it said. Another series of lights. Tell us when, was the message this time.

  When to make their move, Ricky thought.

  Cold Eyes raised his voice again, telling Shorty to shut up.

  Shorty told Cold Eyes to go straight to hell, then decided to send him there.

  He turned his gun on his partner, leaving the hostages without an armed guard.

  This was it.

  Ricky gave Murdoch a sign.

  Now. Now. Now.

  If bullets flew, Lourdes and her family wouldn’t be in the line of fire.

  All hell broke loose.

  Just as the unit outside made a soundless entrance, Shorty shot Cold Eyes. The man went down, but he wasn’t dead.

  He didn’t fire back at Shorty. He aimed his semi-automatic at Ricky instead. He’d take out the man with the millions. Stop Shorty from getting his money.

  Too late, Ricky thought as he lunged. No one was getting anything. He knocked the gun out of Cold Eyes’s hand, and the man grabbed his foot.

  Ricky hit the ground and wrestled with the enemy, who made a vicious attempt to recover his weapon.

  They rolled on the hardwood floor, each battling for control. Ricky’s bleeding shoulder hurt like hell, but he ignored the pain.

  He caught a quick blur and realized Westin and Murdoch had nabbed Shorty. The sheriff was in the kitchen tending to the hostages.

  Ricky nailed Cold Eyes with a knee to the groin. Before the ailing hit man could crouch in pain, Yardley grabbed him, securing his wrists.

  It was over.

  In a matter of seconds, the crisis ended.

  Ricky refused to go to the hospital. Instead he told Murdoch to patch him up, which the other man did with little fanfare. Why make a fuss? Compared to the hole in Ricky’s heart, the one in his shoulder was a scratch.

  Sheriff Wainwright, his deputy and the ambulance personnel, who’d arrived just in time, were long gone.

  Westin and Murdoch remained. And so did Yardley. Elise Campbell stayed, too. The female FBI agent was with Lourdes, Cáco, Amy and the kids, offering them support, helping them cope with the aftermath of a life-altering experience.

  Ricky had barely seen Lourdes or her family. She had whisked her trembling children into another room after the hit men had been hauled away.

  And now Ricky was talking quietly with Westin, Murdoch and Yardley. He’d already explained his amnesia, the loss and the recovery of his memory, so they went ahead and discussed the case, filling him in.

  He’d learned that Valente had been apprehended, but another key player in the smuggling operation, Xavier Gonzalez, was still at large.

  “So where is the jungle rat?” Ricky asked. Gonzalez was a prominent member of El Jefe, a terrorist organization that reigned terror in Central America. The guns smuggled out of Texas had provided El Jefe with an arsenal.

  “When the little worm realized we were closing in on him, he went back to Mezcaya,” Yardley said. “We can’t touch him on foreign soil.”

  Ricky glanced at Westin. Gonzalez had terrorized Ricky’s former commander, mutilating cattle on his ranch and running his wife off the road. Westin had been responsible for killing Gonzalez’s father, which sent the son on a rampage for revenge, creating fear and havoc for the woman Westin loved.

  “Are you going to hunt him down, sir?” Ricky asked the ex-marine turned rancher.

  Westin stood near the window, his big, bulky frame silhouetted in the waning light. “Hell, yes.”

  Ricky met Weston’s gaze. “Then count me in. Just let me the know the time and the place, and I’ll be there.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for it, Mercado?”

  He nodded. “I can handle it.” But what he couldn’t handle was not seeing Lourdes, not touching her.

  “I owe you an apology.” This came from Yardley, the ATF agent who’d considered Ricky the prime suspect in the smuggling ring. “All those weeks I harassed you. I made your life a living hell.”

  “You had evidence pointing in my direction.”

  “Evidence Valente planted.”

  “It’s over now. Besides I got you back.”

  Yardley cocked his head. “You did?”

  “Sure.” Ricky managed a smile. “Whenever I saw you and Agent Campbell together, I was exceptionally nice to her. I kept flirting with her in front of you. I knew it would piss you off.” Because Ricky had sensed Yardley’s hunger for the slender, auburn-haired woman. “You still lusting after her, Yardley?”

  “Naw.” The ATF agent grinned. “I got her out of my system. Of course, I had to marry her to do it. And make her pregnant.”

  Westin congratulated Yardley, and Tyler Murdoch grinned. “Good going, man.”

  “It was the only way to keep her,” the expectant father joked.

  I wouldn’t know, Ricky thought.

  He drew a breath, his heart clenching. He was losing Lourdes. All of his plans for the future, all of his dreams were dying.

  Murdoch sobered. “Hey, Mercado. I’m sorry, too. For treating you like crap the last time I saw you. For not believing that you ditched the mob.”

  Ricky shrugged. He didn’t know what to say, especially since his past association with organized crime would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  Long, miserable days without Lourdes.

  She’d barely looked at him after their ordeal, after he’d put her family in peril.

  Elise Campbell came down the hall, and Yardley moved forward to acknowledge his wife.

  His pregnant wife.

  Ricky wanted to bash Yardley’s teeth in. Lucky bastard. Hell, he wanted to bash Westin and Murdoch’s teeth in, too. They’d all be going home to their wives tonight, to ladies who loved them.

  Elise looked at Ricky. “The children would like to see you.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “They’re still a bit shaken. But I think you can help calm their fears.”

  “Thanks for helping out.” He knew Elise had treated Lourdes’s family with gentleness and compassion, acting as a trauma counselor when one was desperately needed.

  He excus
ed himself and headed for Lourdes’s bedroom, where she and her family were taking refuge.

  He opened the door, anxious to see them. But afraid.

  So afraid of facing Lourdes’s rejection.

  Eleven

  He entered the room, and Lourdes’s heart lunged for her throat.

  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. When she’d heard the gun go off earlier and he’d gotten shot, she’d feared he was dead. The man she loved had been lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

  She still loved him, but his world scared her. His past, his future. Everything about him frightened her now.

  He stood in the center of the room. He wore no shirt, and his shoulder was bandaged.

  She wanted to touch him, to run her finger along his jaw, to memorize his handsome features, but she didn’t know how. Not without crying, without missing what they should have had.

  Her daughters, who cuddled beside Lourdes on the bed, looked up at him. They’d wanted to see him, but suddenly it seemed as if they’d fallen shy in front of the man they longed to call Daddy.

  Cáco and Amy were in the room, too. Amy sat at the vanity, and Cáco in a bentwood rocking chair. The battered old antique squeaked as she rocked. It was the chair Lourdes used to lull her babies to sleep in.

  Amy spoke first. “This is, like, the Sopranos or something. I can’t believe all of this happened. We were so scared.”

  Juan moved closer. No, not Juan, Lourdes thought. Ricky moved closer. Ricky Mercado.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Amy’s eyes were wide and bright. “It’s okay. We’re all okay.” The teenager gave a nervous little laugh. “And I like the Sopranos. It’s a cool show.”

  Lourdes drew a breath. Cool? It wasn’t cool to be in love with a man who’d been some sort of reputed Mafia underboss. Elise Campbell had told her a few things about Ricky’s background, about the crime family he’d been born into.