by Logan Fox
Antonio Luis Rivera—AKA Tony Swan—lifted his head at Zachary’s approach and watched him with guarded apprehension as he drew near. The man’s eyes were set in dark, sunken pools; a gaunt face streaked with dirt and dried blood. But still those black eyes flashed with anger and pride.
“They tell me you refuse to eat,” Zachary said as he came to a halt in front of Antonio.
Antonio didn’t refute the claim. As yet, the man hadn’t uttered a single word. Hadn’t let out more than sounds of pain—muted at that—while Ailin and Rodrigo had tried beating him into compliance.
Zachary had known that wouldn’t work. A man like Antonio would never break under torture. But the physical violence proved a different purpose. It showed ‘El Solitario’ that, to Zachary West, violence was at least one avenue he’d readily explore in order to extract information.
Antonio had to know this implicitly, if the next part of his plan was to work.
The man was on his knees, chained to one of the barn’s support beams. Those chains rattled as he forced himself straighter. He was obviously too weak to come to a stand as he had yesterday when Zachary came to see him.
“If you don’t eat, Mr. Rivera, you will grow too weak to tell me what I need to know.”
He crouched. Antonio had spat on him the last time he’d come down to the man’s level, but he doubted there was enough saliva in his mouth for a repeat performance. He not only refused to eat, but refused water too. He would force both down the man’s throat soon enough, but perhaps in his weakened state he would be more susceptible to negotiation.
“We are drawing near to her. Are you sure you won’t reconsider my offer?”
Antonio glared at him, but didn’t reply. He never did.
“Do you still remember what I promised the first day you arrived?”
Antonio’s only response was another glitter of bright and brittle anger.
“I recall being very explicit about what would happen if I laid my hands on your daughter before you give me the information I require. Do you remember?”
A flicker—not despair, but something close to it—extinguished that fire. A lesser man wouldn’t have seen either the anger or the despair, but Zachary had taught himself to read people a long time ago. It had been a survival trait back then—knowing when the person who held your life in their hands was sober, drunk, angry, depressed, or horny. He’d seen several emotions flooding Rivera’s eyes since he’d been trussed up in his barn. That flicker of despair hadn’t been the first, nor would it be the last.
Zachary reached into his pocket, but didn’t draw out his hand. Rivera’s gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to his pocket, no doubt wondering what was inside; a lock of his daughter’s hair? A photograph? Her finger?
“She left Sierra County yesterday.”
Rivera showed no surprise at the revelation. The capo had had a lot of time to think, down here between the floating dust motes. A lot of time to piece together events and reach his own conclusions.
Zachary drew out the votive candle he’d retrieved from Eleodora’s duffel bag, the one Noah had found at the inn where she’d briefly stayed. He set it on the floor between him and Rivera.
The man didn’t look down, but his gaze bore into Zachary as if he wished he could read his thoughts. Dried blood flaked from the stretch of skin between his nose and his top lip. More coated his chin.
“Seems she’s upholding cartel tradition,” Zachary murmured. “But how much longer will Santa Muerte protect her from me do you think? A day? A week?”
Zachary laid a gentle hand on Rivera’s shoulder. The man didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, but his eyes burned with venom.
“If you don’t eat, Mr. Rivera, then you won’t have the strength to defy me. To beg me to stop when I bring her here.” He lifted a hand, taking in the dingy barn. “When I have my men rip the clothes from her body and desecrate every inch of her skin.”
He tightened his hand, and Rivera dipped his shoulder to get rid of that touch. Zachary smiled, rose up, and dusted his hands as if he’d touched something foul. He overturned the votive candle with the tip of his cowboy boot. It rolled, coming to a rest against Rivera’s knees.
“I’ll leave you to pray to your Death Saint,” Zachary said, his voice heavy with disgust. “Perhaps she’ll grant you a last reprieve and take your life before I find your little Eleodora.”
He paused, body illuminated by a shaft of light.
When he glanced back at Rivera, the man was staring down at the votive candle, mouth trembling.
“Or, perhaps not,” Zachary murmured. “As I understand it, Santa Muerte is known to have a strange sense of humor.”
Rivera flinched, and squeezed his eyes shut.
Lady’s tail churned up dust when Zachary stepped into the sunlight, while Blue only gave him a look of solemn acknowledgment. Heat struck him like a warm wave after the chill and gloom of the barn. He paused to scratch Lady behind an ear, and then turned to Ailin. The man chewed a toothpick, but tugged it out of his mouth when he found Zachary staring at him.
“Have you found him yet?”
Ailin shrugged. “His men are loyal. They’re keeping their mouths shut.”
“Then force them open.” His voice grew hard. “Use pliers if you have to.”
Rodrigo hurried forward as they began walking back to the farmhouse. “They fear El Guapo’s wrath, Don Zachary.”
“Then make them fear mine instead,” Zachary said, heading for the farmhouse again.
“He’ll talk,” Ailin said hurriedly. “Soon as we find—”
“Yes,” Zachary cut in, voice a low, toneless growl. “Which I’m sure will happen any day now.”
His phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and his lips turned into a mirthless smile as he answered. “Speak of the devil.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” came a sonorous voice from the other end of the line.
Zachary smiled to himself. “We haven’t located her yet.”
“I told you not to exert yourself,” came the smug response. “She’ll come when she’s ready. That little bird is stretching her wings, but soon she’ll tire of the outside world. And then her new cage will be waiting for her.”
He despised how poetic the man on the other end of the line was. He always spoke in metaphors, turning every sentence into a sonnet.
Zachary gritted his teeth. “Have you reconsidered my request?” For a moment, deja vu flashed through him. Hadn’t he just uttered those exact words to Antonio? His smile turned true at the thought.
In the sudden silence, the crunch of boots on dried grass seemed louder. As did the call of a Jay hidden in a nearby Acacia.
“I considered you more persuasive than this, Zachary.”
“Mr. Rivera is as tough as an old root. If I know what it is you’re after, I could be more effective.”
And he’d know what this devil of a man was after, too. When he’d agreed to meet, he couldn’t have been less impressed by the man’s appearance. But there was a cruel and devious mind behind those dark eyes, and the need for vengeance had long since rotted it.
“Information is information. Does it matter how the ones and zeros are composed? I need the archives. Antonio knows what they are. He knows how valuable they are, which is why he’s holding back.”
“I see nothing on his face when I ask him for the archives,” Zachary said.
A small group of men crossed their path, most turning to nod their heads in greeting. A few of them wore bright yellow hardhats, incongruous against faces scarred from street fights.
A sigh came through the phone. With great reluctance, the man said, “It’s a list of names, amongst other things. Connections.”
“Inbetweeners,” Zachary said, trying not to let excitement taint his voice. “He’s holding that information from you?”
“Has been since the beginning. It was his part to play, and he played it to perfection. But he’s like a spoiled child that refuses to let go
of his favorite toy. Even if it means breaking it, he won’t release it.”
Zachary’s mouth turned up. “Thank you.”
“For what?” came the wary response.
“For providing me with the leverage I need. It seems Antonio Rivera might value the archives more than his own daughter.”
A laugh vibrated in Zachary’s ear. “That might even be true. I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? I look forward to hearing from you, Zachary. You know where to find me.”
Except he didn’t, and that irked him more than he could bear.
Zachary slipped the phone back into his pocket. Ailin came up beside him, he and Rodrigo having fallen back when Zachary took the call.
“We will find her,” Ailin said. “I won’t sleep until—”
“A person can only last a few days without sleep,” Zachary said. “For your sake, I hope you find her soon. El Calacas Vivo must be shattered. I can’t hold my position in Chihuahua with them to the east and Santa Elena to the west. It’s taking more resources to keep them at bay than it is to expand our territory. As it is, we’re like chickens scratching in the dirt. Selling to desperate farmers and any stray gringos that happens to find himself between tourist traps.”
He didn’t consider himself a gringo. Yes, he’d been born in Indianapolis, but he’d spent more time in Mexico than he ever had in America. These last three years after he’d purchased the property in Lajitas had been the longest time he’d spent in America since he’d been abducted and taken over the border all of twenty years ago. He’d been sixteen then, but as defenseless as a newborn pup, stoned as he was. High on heroine—the only thing able to force him from sleep to waking.
And that had been before the long years he’d spent as the bedroom pet of a cartel leader whose taste for young boys was as blatant as his drive to choke America with his product.
Back then, American’s couldn’t snort cork up their noses fast enough.
Today it was meth or heroin.
Tomorrow…who the fuck knew what the gringos would be addicted to then?
4
…and the devil makes three
The cabin door took a few shoves before it would open. So much snow had accumulated on the small porch that Finn had to wade through it before he reached the path leading around the cabin. Well, what used to be a path—here, snow drifts hugged the cabin as if Mother Nature had been intent on burying him and Cora.
He found the generator a minute later.
Mother Nature had succeeded here—it was almost completely covered with snow. And, for good measure, she’d thrown a fucking pine tree on top of it, too. The same one that had taken out the nearby power line, which now draped across the side of the cabin like a piece of liquorice.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, squinting through a sudden fury of snow.
He went into the small shed behind the cabin, got a torch and spade from the supply closet, and went to work trying to unearth the generator.
A few minutes later, he could see enough of the unit to make out the control panel. But it was dead, and refused to turn on when he flipped the power switch off and on again.
Wind gusted around him, and brought with it a new sound. Finn cocked his head, straining to hear past the whistling wind and susurration of harried snow. He shook his head, and wiped the snow from the generator that had collected again.
The sound came again, rising and falling with the wind. This time, he could identify it. It was the tinny growl of a snowmobile.
Thirst drove Cora from the warm bed. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, hesitated, and then grabbed her Taurus from the nightstand before hurrying downstairs. The fire had seemed to warm the cabin up; the living area was much warmer than the bedroom. Which was a boon, considering all she wore was her underwear and a long sleeve shirt.
She set her empty pistol on the kitchen counter.
There was a small kerosene stove on the counter. She hunted around in the cupboards until she found coffee and made herself a cup, leaving a cup out for Finn.
She sipped at her coffee as she hunted for something to eat in the cupboards. There were tons of tanned goods, but no candy bars or cookies. Very disappointing.
There was a sound from outside. It almost sounded like the whine of an engine.
The cold from her exposed legs flashed into her bones and raced up her body. She fumbled with the Taurus as she grabbed it from the kitchen counter and aimed it at the cabin door.
There were no windows facing the side of the cabin where the vehicle had stopped. Just a small, bubbly square of glass set near the top of the cabin’s door. It showed just white.
Cora clamped both hands around the Taurus, and crept closer. The blanket hanging from her shoulders was in danger of falling off, but getting a chill was the last thing on her mind.
They’d found her.
They’d tracked her and Finn through the goddamn snow, up this goddamn mountain, and all the way to this death trap of a damn cabin.
And Finn was outside. Maybe too far away to hear the intruder through the storm.
Or had they taken care of him already?
The Taurus dipped, and then trembled. She forced her arms to stiffen, tried to get them to stop shaking.
She moved another foot closer to the door. The whine of the engine turned into a purr and then cut off. Another sound now. It could have been boots thumping on the porch, but with the blood rushing in her ears, it could have been just about anything.
Cora took another step closer. The Taurus leveled out, and then began trembling again when someone rattled at the door.
One in the chest, one in the head.
Her eyes flashed down the pistol.
No bullets. I have no fucking bullets.
You, me, and the devil makes three.
They didn’t know that. She could have a full magazine.
The door handle turned, turned, sprang back into position. She jerked at the sound, then forced her muscles to become rock hard again. Whoever came through that door mustn’t see her fear.
She tossed hair from her eyes, and spread her legs; drawing from the dregs of remaining memory about her marksman training. There was a clatter—were they picking the lock?—and then the handle turned again. This time, the door opened.
“Freeze!”
The man did exactly that, halting on the cabin’s threshold with one hand still latched to the handle, the other cupping whatever he’d been using to open the door with.
He slowly lifted his hand from the door handle. “Whoa, little lady, I—”
“I said freeze!” Cora lifted the gun a little, aiming it at his head. “No talking.”
If she could contain the threat—and god, wasn’t that something Finn would say?—until he came back, then he could deal with this guy. The intruder was tall, but skinny. Finn could easily take him down.
The man wore a black ski-mask, goggles. The hood of his neon yellow parka hung around his shoulders, merging almost seamlessly with the scarf around his neck. He shook his head. “Listen, there’s—”
“Shut it!” Her voice boomed back to her, but at least it sounded steady. And shouting helped. Seemed to give her a layer of courage she didn’t know she had. She glanced around the cabin. The firelight picked out a small two-seater dining room table with a pair of ladder-back wooden chairs set to either side. “There.” She cocked her head toward the chairs. “Sit.”
The man began moving.
“Slowly!”
He slowed, walking like he had to drag his feet through treacle. “If I could just—”
“You want a bullet in your leg?” Cora yelled.
The man lifted his hands higher, cocking both eyebrows at her.
“Then shut up and sit down.” She tried to make her voice deep, like Finn’s, but that just ended up scratching her throat. She coughed, and her blanket fell to the floor as she retreated into the kitchen. She remembered seeing a loop of yellow rope inside one of the cupboards.
The man took a careful seat in the chair.
“Take off those goggles,” she said, as she reached blindly behind her to open the cupboard. He did, still moving slowly. The goggles came free and he set them carefully down on the table.
Green eyes shone as he studied her, narrowing when she fumbled behind her for the rope.
“Hands up.”
The man lifted his hands again.
A gust of wind rattled against the house. It slammed the cabin door shut with a resounding crash. Cora jerked, and then glared at the man as if she could will him to forget what he’d just seen. Her fingers brushed a coil of rope. She yanked it out and sidled closer. He watched her with unreadable eyes as she came close enough to toss the rope at him.
“Tie yourself up,” she said.
Those eyes trailed down her body, making her acutely aware that the shirt she wore was thin enough that it probably left nothing to the imagination. With the cold air the open door had brought inside, her nipples had gone hard. Or, perhaps, that was just the adrenalin coursing through her body.
“We talking a Prusik or a wrap-and-cinch?” the man asked.
“Just do it!”
He shrugged, whipped off his ski mask, and grabbed the rope. Binding it swiftly around his wrists, he gave it a hard tug with his teeth and sat back in the chair. He lifted his arms, eyebrows twitching, and mouth in a sarcastic line. His hair was so pale as to be white, and hung in a messy fringe above his eyes.
“Not the warm welcome I was expecting,” he said.
“I said keep quiet. You’re going to sit there and shut up until Fi—” She cut off. “Until reinforcements arrive.”
The man gave her an incredulous stare, and then burst out laughing. “You mean Milo? I guess that guy’s an army all by himself.” He had a tang of an accent on his words, but one she’d never heard before. He let out another curt laugh, and gave her another slow once-over with those green eyes. “But I’ll have you pinned to the floor long before he gets here. So why don’t you drop the act, sweetheart, and—”