Make Them Sorry

by Sam Hawken

  “What is it?” Faith asked.

  “Quiet.”

  Camaro slipped out of the bedroom and to the end of the hall, where the stairs led down. It was easier to hear there. Sound carried up the staircase so clearly that she might as well have stood beside Romero while he took the call. He was on the phone for less than two minutes. Afterward he spoke in low tones to Marshal Stanley. Camaro heard everything. She went back to the bedroom and closed the door.

  “Something’s wrong,” Faith said.

  “Yes. The banker’s dead. Kaur. They found his body.”

  Faith hugged her knees. She seemed shrunken on the bed. “That means I’m the only one left.”

  “I don’t know how safe this place is,” Camaro told her. “These people…”

  “It’s my fault. I didn’t go when I had the chance.”

  Camaro walked to the window. She eased back the curtain despite the rules. From here she saw the pool and dense foliage closing in around it. A path led to what was probably a private dock. The pool glowed blue, lights burning beneath the surface. More lights marked out the path. Through the greenery Camaro caught a glimpse of something burning near the water. There were no real shadows. “You came back because I said you should,” Camaro said when she stepped away from the window.

  “What do we do?”

  “We need to—”

  The doorbell chimed. It was shocking, even with the storm crashing outside. Camaro heard Romero and Stanley talking again, their voices muted through the closed bedroom door, followed by the distinct rack of a shotgun slide. She felt the muscles in her back tighten. She hurried to the door and cracked it open. Faith turned off the TV.

  Someone’s voice, broken with static, came over a speaker. Camaro heard Ignacio’s name. “Close the door and stay,” Camaro said to Faith. “I’ll be right back.”

  Camaro heard Romero talking on his phone. Camaro reached the stairs, eased down the steps to the landing, and crouched to see the front door. Romero and Stanley were there with their weapons.

  Stanley caught sight of her. “You,” he said. “Upstairs.”

  “Is it Detective Montellano?”

  “How did he find this place?”

  “You have to ask him. Is he coming in?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “Let him in.”

  “I said we’re working on it. Go upstairs.”

  Camaro came down the rest of the way. Marshal Stanley slung his weapon, an M4 carbine, and reached for her. She stepped clear of his grasp. He reached for her again and found her out of reach. “Don’t put your hands on me,” Camaro told him.

  Stanley started to speak. Romero ended his call. “He’s coming in,” Romero said.

  Romero pressed a button on a panel by the front door. There was a muffled buzz. The three of them stood in the foyer, unspeaking. A pair of headlights washed across the front of the house. A few moments later, Romero opened the front door with his shotgun held low. Stanley covered him.

  Ignacio came in from the pouring rain, jacket soaked, water running from the brim of his hat. He saw Camaro. Romero pushed him against the wall. “Get your hands up there. Doug, secure the perimeter.”

  Romero searched Ignacio while Stanley put on a dark blue rain slicker with US MARSHALS emblazoned on the front and back. Stanley paused on the doorstep to look at all of them before he moved out into the storm and closed the door behind him.

  “Service weapon?” Romero asked Ignacio.

  “Right hip.”

  “Then what’s this?” Romero asked. He pulled Camaro’s .45 from the small of Ignacio’s back.

  “That’s mine,” Camaro said.

  “Nope. It’s mine. What are you thinking, Detective? You think we’re going to have a shoot-out in here?”

  “Are you carrying that shotgun for fun?” Ignacio asked.

  “Shut up. Put your hands down.”

  Ignacio pulled himself off the wall and straightened his wet jacket. He looked at Camaro. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. You should not be here.”

  “No, I shouldn’t. But I had a bad feeling.”

  Romero brought out his phone. He showed it to Ignacio. “Call this number. You and Espinoza take it in the kitchen.”

  The marshal pointed. Camaro and Ignacio went.

  “Faith’s upstairs?” Ignacio asked her on the way.

  “Yes.”

  “How is she holding up?”

  “She doesn’t like the storm.”

  They entered the kitchen. It was large and glossy, with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. A rack over the central island dangled pots and pans, all looking untouched. A magnetic strip on the wall held a selection of expensive knives.

  Ignacio’s phone rang. He put it on speaker and held it between them.

  “Hello? Is this Detective Montellano?” a woman asked.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Special Agent Pope. We have a situation, Detective.”

  Ignacio passed a look to Camaro. “I had a feeling.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Ignacio said. “Mansfield is dead?”

  “Do I need to repeat myself?” Pope asked. “Yes, he’s dead. His car was run off the road. He survived the crash, but they executed him behind the wheel.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Camaro asked.

  “Who is that?”

  “Camaro Espinoza.”

  “So you are at the safe house.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s where we are.”

  “I don’t know whether to be happy or angry. This afternoon I got a call from Lawrence Kaur. He’d holed up in a hotel and was drinking himself stupid. He was sure Lorca’s men were onto him. He had nowhere else to go. I told Special Agent Mansfield, and he said he’d put his people on it. Later they found Kaur dead. Shot twice in the head. Turns out Mansfield didn’t report the call from Kaur for more than two hours. That was plenty of time for Lorca’s hitters to seal the deal.”

  “Mansfield told them where to find Kaur,” Camaro said.

  “He really was an asshole,” Ignacio said. “Pardon my language.”

  “I should have been ready for it,” Pope continued. “We picked up activity in some accounts linked to Lorca. Nothing we could ever say for certain are his. Otherwise his assets would be frozen, but enough for us to keep an eye on. A payment was made fifteen minutes after I talked to Mansfield for half a million dollars.”

  “This kind of thing doesn’t come out of nowhere,” Ignacio said. “Didn’t anyone have an idea about Mansfield?”

  Pope was slow to speak. “I had an idea. The further we got into this, the more things stacked up. I moved on it too late.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s more,” Pope said. “Additional activity. Payments going out fast and furious. Lorca’s buying targets. He started with Kaur, but he wants to close out all the books.”

  “Faith,” Camaro said. “Me.”

  “Maybe even Detective Montellano.”

  “I’m starting to think I should have stayed home the night Faith killed Serafian,” Ignacio said.

  “If Mansfield took Lorca’s money, what’s the point of killing him?” Camaro asked. “And why go after us now? It’s over. We don’t have anything.”

  “Carlos Lorca wants to send a message. He wants to make sure it’s loud and clear.”

  Camaro straightened. She looked toward the kitchen door and saw Romero there. “We don’t have enough cover here. There’s two marshals, and that’s it.”

  “Reinforcements are on the way. But we have to assume Lorca’s hitters are already en route. Detective Montellano, it’s good you’re there, because we need everyone out of that house, and we need all the guns we can get.”

  A sound like the collision of two mountain ranges burst over the house. The lights in the kitchen flickered and died. There was no sound except the storm. Camaro caught Ignacio’s wrist in the dark. �
�The power’s out,” Camaro told Pope.

  “Shit. You need to move. We have a rally point half a mile from the house. Romero and Stanley can get you there.”

  “It’s no good to move. There’s limited visibility and no real cover on the street. If they took down one car, they can take down another. We don’t know how many they have and we don’t know how they’re armed. It’s better if we stay put and let your people come to us.”

  “I think we know what we’re doing,” Romero cut in.

  “Marshal Romero is right,” Pope said. “This is what he does. You’re exposed. A moving target is harder to hit than a sitting one.”

  Camaro saw Ignacio’s profile in the dark. He spoke. “I’m sorry, but I’m with Camaro—I mean Ms. Espinoza—on this one. We’re armed and locked in. We’ll get backup when? Twenty, thirty minutes?”

  “I’m not arguing with you. Marshal Romero?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Get them out of there. These people coming at you know their business.”

  “We’ll handle it, ma’am.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Camaro turned to Romero when the call ended. “Give me my weapon,” she said.

  “You’re a civilian.”

  “It’s my ass. I want my gun.”

  “I’d let her have it if I were you,” Ignacio said.

  Romero grunted. He moved in the shadows. Camaro put out a hand. He pressed the .45 into it. She chambered a round, set the safety, and put away the weapon. “Okay,” she said.

  “We move in two,” Romero said.

  “No.”

  “Look, goddamn it, we are in charge here. We move in two.”

  Ignacio checked his weapon. “I think we’re gonna stay here.”

  Romero turned toward the door. “Doug!”

  Stanley appeared. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re moving out. Bring the witness down.”

  “Don’t,” Camaro said.

  “We do not take orders from you!” Romero shot back.

  “And we are not going to expose ourselves out there!” Camaro shouted. “If you want to get cut to pieces, that’s your business, but we’re not moving. We stay, and we take them.”

  “You are insane,” Romero said.

  “I know you already checked this place out,” Camaro told him. “You know we’re open to the water and the street. They could come either way, but there’s a clear field of fire all the way across the pool area, and we can hold them out front if we keep the drive open.”

  “Luis?” Stanley asked.

  Romero shook his head. “Goddamn it, now I’m the crazy one. Okay, you want to seal it up, we can seal it up. Nobody gets inside. Detective Montellano, we can use your car to block the gate. If you don’t mind getting wet again.”

  “So I don’t get dead? Sure, I’m cool with it.”

  They moved out of the kitchen. Romero and Stanley conversed in low tones. Camaro saw movement on the stairs. “Faith, go back up,” she said.

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  Ignacio headed for the front door. Camaro cut Faith off before she reached the bottom step. “People are coming. I need you to listen to me. Go upstairs and find the smallest corner you can find. Stay there until I tell you it’s okay to come out.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to take care of this.”

  Romero headed for the dining room. “I’m going to cover the back. Doug will handle the front. I want to—”

  The tinkling of breaking glass was almost too tinny to be heard under the boil of rain. Camaro saw the marshal silhouetted against the weak light from the windows at the far end of the house. A perfect line of blood, solid black to the eye, jetted from the side of Romero’s neck. He collapsed to the floor all at once. A dark pool spread on the white marble.

  Faith screamed. Ignacio said something that sounded like a curse he’d never use. Stanley shouted Romero’s name. Camaro surged forward and drove Faith to the floor as the front door disintegrated into a shower of splinters, bullets shredding through Stanley. More bullets struck the far wall with the rattle of stones in a tin. Stanley fell on his face.

  Camaro didn’t hear any reports. The attack was silent.

  “Detective!” Camaro shouted. Faith writhed under her. Camaro had the .45 in her hand. Her pulse pounded in her temples. Her vision was limned in silver. She was hyperventilating. “Detective!”

  “I’m here!”

  “Can you see them?”

  Ignacio crawled toward a window near the door. He peeked through. “Yeah, I see them. Two coming up fast.”

  “It’s happening,” Faith said.

  Camaro ignored her. “I’m gonna move. Get Faith upstairs.”

  “They’re all around the house, Camaro. You need someone behind you.”

  “We don’t have time to negotiate,” Camaro said. The pool of blood forming around Stanley touched her boot. “If we don’t get this right, we are going to die. Right here, right now.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  IGNACIO AND FAITH went up the stairs. Camaro crawled into the kitchen and came up against a double oven with the .45 in her hand. She heard nothing but the constant white noise of the rain.

  The kitchen had two ways out. One went to the foyer, the other opened onto a hallway running lengthwise along the edge of the house. Camaro moved, crouching as she went into the darkened hall, where high windows let in the slightest trickle of light. She saw other doors along the way—the laundry room, a utility closet, a half bathroom—and passed them. Somewhere ahead she heard the muffled sound of two men speaking Spanish.

  Camaro crossed a game room with a billiards table and a pinball machine, the latter a standing statue of dead metal with the power out. She went on. At the rear of the house was a large diamond-shaped area scattered with love seats and chairs. The back wall was a cathedral of glass. Big-screen TVs were at both ends of the room, and there was an unnecessary fireplace.

  Two men in black stood outside the twin doors opening onto the pool area. As Camaro watched, one of them used the butt of a carbine to smash a larger hole in an already broken pane. Camaro raised her weapon in both hands as the man reached inside for the knob. He opened the doors. The pair came in together. Camaro squeezed the trigger.

  The lead figure took two in the chest and toppled against his partner. The second man’s carbine discharged. Camaro saw no flash and heard nothing but the thud of a suppressor. Bullets skipped off the marble floor and ricocheted into a glass coffee table. It collapsed into fragments.

  Camaro left her position, moving perpendicular to the second gunman as he struggled underneath his dying companion. She fired twice more. Glass fell. Blowing rain passed through the open doors, soaking the floor and mingling with blood.

  The second gunman made it to one knee and opened fire. Camaro hurled herself down, skidding across the slick marble as the carbine coughed and chopped. A picture took three rounds and jumped off the wall. Bullets cut through the back of a leather-upholstered chair, rocking it on its legs. Camaro scrambled on elbows and knees, belly nearly touching the floor.

  She reached a spot behind a side table decorated with a vase and a single flower. The gunman tracked with her, squeezing off bursts. She fired again, and the man wrenched violently to the side. Bits of bone and tissue splattered the glass behind him. He went down and didn’t move.

  Camaro got up. She dashed to the dead men. She searched one with her free hand. They wore tactical vests with pouches for extra ammo and holsters for a sidearm. Her fingers brushed across the hard plastic handle of a sheathed field knife as the sound of cracking wood carried through the house. The front door was down.

  The knife was in her hand now, blackened blade in the shadows. She heard the rush of boots, and a gunman with a shotgun ran into sight. Camaro fired at the same time he did. She felt a hot burning in her arm. Her shots went wide. A tall sheet of picture window disintegrated.

  She
spun on the balls of her feet and dove through the open doors, into the rain. The gunman came after her, the bellow of his shotgun swallowing up the metal noise of the slide racking with every shot. Camaro got to her feet and sprinted along the edge of the pool toward a line of palms and bushes, gunfire chasing her through the downpour. She cleared the lead edge of the greenery, tucked into a fall, and shoulder-rolled into cover.

  The shotgun didn’t speak. Camaro risked a peek and saw the gunman reloading. She pointed and fired. He ducked away. Camaro’s gun went dry. She dropped it in the bushes and moved. She bled from wounds in her side, leg, and arm. It was difficult not to limp. Soaking plants whipped at her while she ran.

  The middle steps to the private dock were ahead of her. She stopped at the edge of the foliage and crouched. She heard one man yelling to the other in Spanish. She understood some.

  “Come back inside!”

  “In a moment. One of the bitches is out here.”

  She went low out of the bushes and onto the rain-slick wood. She ascended the steps until she was able to raise her head enough to see over the line of the top stair. Both men were out in the rain, one armed like the two dead, the other with the shotgun. They said more, but Camaro couldn’t catch the words.

  She panted from exertion and pain. She felt hot blood where it mixed into cooler rain. The knife was half a pound in her hand, the ridges on the handle locked inside her fist.

  The man with the shotgun ventured away from the house. His companion called after him one more time, but the gunman waved it away. He rounded the pool, weapon up, scanning the rainy twilight. Camaro retreated into the undergrowth with the knife still ready. She heard the creak of wet boots on concrete by the pool. His head appeared at the top of the steps, followed by the rest of him.

  He stopped. Camaro held her breath. Lightning arced overhead, a latticework inside a jet-black cloud. Thunder slapped down on them like an open hand. The man with the shotgun flinched. Camaro came off the ground. Eight feet separated them. Camaro crossed it in two steps. The gunman’s eyes shimmered wide and white. His shotgun swung Camaro’s way. She weaved under it, drove it upward. The weapon detonated between them. Camaro’s vision stung with bright light and flecks of burning gunpowder. She was deafened.