Make Them Sorry

by Sam Hawken

  She stabbed the man in the side twice, the point going in under the ribs. The air went out of him. They careened toward the pool. He struck Camaro in the face with the hot barrel of his weapon. They tumbled over together.

  The knife fell. Camaro grabbed the shotgun in both hands and twisted, seeking leverage with toes and knees. The gunman tried to work the slide, but Camaro ripped the weapon from his hands. She flung the shotgun away. It clattered across the concrete before vanishing into the pool.

  They rolled. Camaro looked for a way onto his back. Their skulls cracked together and the man’s bloody spit drooled across Camaro’s mouth. Wet strands of hair stuck to her face and obscured her vision. She let him take her over, shoved her arm underneath his, forced her head into the gap it made. He tried to crush her. She slithered out of his grasp, greased by the rain, and mounted him from behind.

  The man tumbled again, as violently as an alligator feeding. They came to rest at the edge of the pool. Camaro had her arm around his throat. She had his legs trapped by hers. He lurched until his face dangled over the water. Camaro reversed her grip, fastened her hands at the base of his skull, and levered downward.

  He thrashed. Camaro’s breath came in gulps and bursts. The muscles in her arms screamed, pushing down and down until the gunman’s face was against the water. Under the water. Bubbles surged to the surface around his head. His movements turned to panic. She held on until he was still.

  The other one hadn’t reemerged. Camaro couldn’t see him through the windows. She rolled away, sucking air, and pushed hair from her face. Her hand found the bloody knife. She got to her feet again. She ran toward the house, conscious of every yard. She didn’t know how many there might be. Three were down and one was up, but there could be two or three or four more.

  The diamond-shaped room was empty when she reached it. Camaro stepped over the dead men, pausing long enough to loot one body of its pistol, a heavy 9mm automatic. She ventured farther into the house. She heard screaming. A man’s voice, followed by a woman’s voice. A burst of shouted Spanish. A .38 snapped like a string of firecrackers, six rounds quickly.

  Camaro ran to the stairs and covered the landing. No one. She mounted the steps, turned, and crouched to take in the top of the staircase. A man with a shotgun was there. She shot him three times in the chest and face.

  Camaro entered the upstairs hallway. An identically dressed gunman came at her, weapon up. She flung the field knife when he pulled the trigger. He fired into the ceiling, the handle of the knife jutting from the exposed flesh of his neck. He sank to his knees. His carbine hit the floor. He reached to pull the blade free, spat up black blood in the shadows of the hallway. The knife made a wet sound coming out. He fell.

  The report of a gunshot followed, but there was no bullet. Camaro left the dead man behind. She found the bedroom where she had sheltered with Faith. She saw the last of the gunmen in the center of the room. Faith was on the floor. The gunman clutched Ignacio to him. He was almost completely shielded by Ignacio’s wide body.

  Camaro came into the room and pressed the 9mm out. The gunman held an identical automatic to Ignacio’s head. Camaro saw the shape of Ignacio’s .38 on the floor. “Detective,” she said.

  “Stay back,” Ignacio said. “Don’t.”

  Camaro ignored him. She spoke to the gunman. “Your friends are dead. You kill him and you’re dead.”

  “We exchange. Your life for his.”

  “My life’s not worth anything.”

  “El General, he disagrees. And I can see you are wounded already. Don’t be foolish.”

  “Camaro,” Ignacio said. “Walk away. He can do what he wants with me. Pope’s people are coming. They’ll get him.”

  “You shut up!” the gunman shouted in Ignacio’s ear. He looked at Camaro. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “It’s true. It’s over.”

  “Then I have nothing to lose.” The gunman pressed his pistol harder against Ignacio’s temple. Ignacio’s face was a tight mask.

  Camaro took a sharp step forward.

  “Don’t!” Ignacio managed.

  “Drop the gun,” the man told her.

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Everyone will die. Him. You.”

  Faith stirred on the floor. Camaro didn’t look at her. Her aim wavered. Her arm ached. Droplets fell from her, but she didn’t know if it was water or blood.

  “Do you hear me!?”

  “I’m not dying today,” Camaro said.

  “You stupid woman!”

  Faith rose to one knee. Camaro saw a wet, dark stain on her clothes. Faith faltered. Camaro held her breath. The man with the gun saw nothing.

  Camaro saw his finger tighten on the trigger. Faith lurched ahead and caught him low with her shoulder, 120 pounds directed in a single movement. The gunman exclaimed. He lost his grip on Ignacio and slipped sideways. Ignacio fell to the floor.

  Camaro triggered her weapon. The gunman’s chest burst open. Camaro fired again and again and again. His automatic flung into the air. He crashed backward over the corner of the bed and onto the hardwood. His foot snagged on the bedspread and twitched.

  Faith fell to her hands and knees, coughing. Camaro stepped forward. Ignacio reached for her, but his fingers only brushed her leg. “Camaro,” he said.

  The gunman was still alive with five rounds in him. Camaro shot him twice through the cheek.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  SHE PACKED EVERYTHING, but even so, there were only a few boxes. Everything fit easily in the bed of her truck. She had her bike on a trailer in the street. The house was bare of anything that might be considered hers. Camaro stood in the front room looking over the place. She nodded to herself. She went out.

  The landlord was there. He was an older man, close to seventy, and frail. He accepted her keys without enthusiasm. “Goodbye, Ms. Espinoza,” he said.

  “Goodbye.”

  She went to her truck. Once she backed out of the driveway, she lined up the trailer hitch with the bike hauler and got out to make the connection. She saw two cars cruising up the street. Ignacio was behind the wheel of the first. Camaro expelled a sharp breath. She got back in the truck.

  Ignacio headed her off. The second car blocked her from behind. Camaro smacked the steering wheel with the heel of her palm.

  She put down her window. Ignacio got out of the lead car. He came over to the truck. “No adiós?” he asked.

  “I didn’t see the point.”

  “Sure. Right.”

  “So…”

  “Yeah. Okay.” He glanced toward the white dressing on her arm. “How’s that healing?”

  “Fine. How about you?”

  “I didn’t get shot.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yeah,” Ignacio said. He looked toward his feet. “Yeah.”

  Camaro saw movement in her side mirror. Special Agent Pope got out of the second car. “Am I under arrest or something?” Camaro asked.

  “No. But people are concerned about you.”

  “I’ve been on the road before. I can be on the road again.”

  “And you aren’t coming back?”

  Camaro shrugged one shoulder. The other one hurt too much. “No way to know.”

  “I’m gonna miss you.”

  She looked at his eyes. They were moist and earnest. She couldn’t look long. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said finally.

  Pope arrived at her window. “My offer of relocation still stands. We did it for Faith Glazer, we can do it for you.”

  “No,” Camaro replied.

  “So you’re going to rely on Carlos Lorca’s goodwill to keep you safe?”

  “He has to find me first.”

  Ignacio’s tone was sober. “How hard do you think it’s going to be?”

  “No one ever came around here.”

  “How many people do you have looking for you?”

  The slightest of smiles
lifted the corner of Camaro’s mouth. “That’s my problem.”

  Ignacio turned to Pope. “Special Agent Pope, do you mind if I have a few minutes with Camaro alone?”

  “Sure,” Pope said. She glanced at Camaro. “I don’t think she’ll listen to me anyway.”

  Pope went to where the landlord stood watching, the house keys in his hand. Camaro was aware of people looking on from other yards.

  “Hey,” Ignacio said. “Listen, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, because I know we’re not going steady or anything, but I’d like you to stay. If you’ll stay. You need someone to watch your back. And you need a friend.”

  He put his hand on the edge of Camaro’s window. She put her hand over it. “There’s nothing left for me here. Not right now, anyway.”

  “You’re not gonna miss me at all?”

  “Would it make you feel better if I did?”

  “Actually, yeah, it would.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “That almost sounds like you mean it.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Think about it awhile.”

  “You know, I haven’t finished showing you all the great places to eat.”

  “Some other time.” She took her hand away.

  “Faith asked about you. Want to know what she said?”

  Camaro felt her neck stiffen. She looked out through the windshield. “Not really.”

  “Now that doesn’t sound like you mean it at all.”

  Camaro didn’t turn to him. “Okay, tell me.”

  “She said you were right. You can run and run, but you can’t get away.”

  “Is that what she really said?”

  Ignacio chuckled. “I guess you’ll never know. But it sounds like something she’d say, right?”

  She looked at him. “I really can’t stay. I could…but I can’t. No matter who asks.”

  The humor vanished from Ignacio’s face. “Will you do me one favor at least, Ms. Espinoza?”

  Pope and the landlord were talking. Camaro frowned. “What’s the favor?”

  “Will you try not to kill anybody for a little while?”

  She tried to keep the smile away, but it wouldn’t stay hidden. Ignacio grinned at her. “No promises,” Camaro said. “It’s been a busy few years.”

  “Hey, try six months for a start. If that works out, go for twelve. You don’t need any more of that kind of thing weighing you down.”

  Camaro cocked her head. “You really do care, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  Camaro started the truck’s engine. “I’ll see you around, Detective.”

  “One more thing,” Ignacio said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I need to go,” Camaro said.

  “I asked you to call me Nacho. All my friends call me Nacho. I’d…like for you to call me Nacho instead of ‘Detective.’ You know what I’m saying?”

  Camaro thought. “Does anybody really call you Nacho?”

  “Of course. Lots of people.”

  “Do they really?”

  Ignacio shook his head. “No, not really. One guy, I guess. I don’t know why.”

  “It’s because ‘Nacho’ is weird,” Camaro said.

  “It’s not weird!”

  “Yes. It is. And I’m never going to call you that. Not ever.”

  “Like ‘Camaro’ isn’t a name somebody picked out of a car magazine.”

  Camaro put the truck into drive.

  “How about Ignacio, then? Can we agree on that?”

  Camaro appraised him. “Okay…Ignacio.”

  Ignacio thumped the edge of the window. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Ignacio. Ignacio Montellano. It’s a good name, I think. Conveys strength.”

  “If you say so, Ignacio.”

  “Will you call when you get there?”

  “I don’t even know where I’m going yet.”

  “Well…whenever you make it there.”

  “Maybe.”

  Ignacio extended his right hand through the window. “It was nice knowing you, Camaro Espinoza. You and me, we’ve been through some shit together. Pardon my language.”

  Camaro shook his offered hand. “And that’s another thing: I’ve heard the word ‘shit’ before. You don’t need to apologize.”

  Ignacio swept the hat from his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s how the Montellano boys were raised.”

  Camaro laughed. She stifled it with her hand. “Okay, then. You be you.”

  “What do you know: Camaro’s got something under the hood, after all,” Ignacio said.

  “That’s always been the problem.”

  Camaro put up the window. Ignacio moved his car. She drove away.

  Acknowledgments

  Make Them Sorry is a watershed moment for Camaro Espinoza, when the woman hidden behind a wall of emotional protection begins to show herself for the first time. She could not have gotten here without the support of many behind the scenes.

  First and foremost is my wife, Mariann, to whom this book is dedicated. Mariann will not tolerate bad writing, and she has saved my keister more times than I care to admit. If you enjoy Camaro’s stories, it’s because Mariann was there to keep me from wrecking them.

  My agent, Oliver Munson, has also been an indefatigable booster of Camaro from the day the first novel in the series, The Night Charter, crossed his desk. I have been, and continue to be, grateful for his full support over the past few years of Camaro’s life.

  Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Emily Giglierano and Ruth Tross, my excellent editors on both sides of the Atlantic. Emily in particular has represented a real partner in my time with Mulholland, and the mere fact that you hold Make Them Sorry in your hands is due to her persistence in seeing this story through.

  And for those I have forgotten: it has been a pleasure working with each and every one of you. Camaro and I would buy you a beer if we could.

  About the Author

  Photograph by Mariann Hawken

  Sam Hawken is the author of the Camaro Espinoza series, beginning with The Night Charter, as well as the Crime Writers’ Association Dagger Award–nominated Borderlands trilogy. He was born in Texas and currently lives outside Baltimore with his wife and son.

  Books by Sam Hawken

  The Camaro Espinoza Series

  The Night Charter

  Walk Away

  The Borderlands Trilogy

  The Dead Women of Juarez

  Tequila Sunset

  Missing

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