Cowboys Last All Night

by Jennifer Ashley

  Christie had been told that agents had cleared the way, making sure no employees or guests were nearby as Christie, Trace, the decoy agents, and the protection detail left the room. The weight of the body armor seemed to grow as they went. Her whole body felt heavy, which had little to do with the vest. It had more to do with a frozen feeling that had sunk into her bones.

  They went down in the service elevators. Christie stood beside Trace, having to look up at him as always because he was so tall and she was so petite. “If the cartel knows we’re here, are you sure no one can follow us?”

  “The FBI has secured the area.” Trace sounded confident, but she wondered if he was as confident as his tone would lead her to believe. “No one is getting near you.”

  Christie bit the inside of her lip. Her skin prickled, an uneasy feeling making the Chinese food not sit so well with her any longer.

  “Reservations have been made at multiple hotels under various names.” Trace looked thoughtful. “We’re hoping that will throw off the cartel.”

  Everything became a blur as agents escorted Christie through the back of the hotel and out to one of three waiting vans. Each van looked different—none of them were black like agency cars or SUVs.

  On the older-looking vans were different decals. One had “Harper’s Plumbing,” on it, another had “Professional One Day Dry Cleaning,” and the third advertised “Valley Landscaping Services.” Each vehicle could easily get lost in Phoenix, unnoticed, which was obviously the idea.

  Christie was glad they had dressed her like the agents. She blended in well, especially since the decoy female agents were close to her size and weight, and all three of them wore matching sunglasses.

  Trace was at her side every step of the way. She met his gaze as they reached the white paneled van with “Harper’s Plumbing” on it. The door was open. She noticed that Trace didn’t help her into the vehicle, as was his normal habit. It was probably to keep from making her stand out from other agents who would not be receiving the same treatment.

  She climbed inside the dim interior of the almost empty windowless van and saw that there were no seats. The only thing in the van was a big wooden box, the size of a coffin.

  The floor was cool beneath her as she settled herself on the ridged metal.

  “Not much for comfort.” A man sitting in the driver’s seat looked over his shoulder at them. “But we’ll get you to your next location safely, Ms. Simpson.” He, too, wore sunglasses and a jumpsuit, and he also wore a Bluetooth earpiece.

  “Thank you.” Christie shifted so she was closer to Trace who had sat down beside her. His presence was a comfort even when she didn’t feel like she deserved it.

  She wanted to apologize for putting everyone in so much danger, but she held her tongue. What good would apologies do? She’d screwed up and good. Trace had told her not to play the blame game, and that this was all on Salvatore. No matter what Trace had said, she did blame herself.

  After a few moments, the agent put the van into gear and pulled away from the building. “On the move,” he said as the van jostled them while it went down the back alley. She guessed he was talking to whoever was on the other end of the Bluetooth.

  Downtown Phoenix was full of one-way streets. The only time Christie had come to this area she had gotten totally turned around and almost went the wrong direction on a street. She was glad she wasn’t the one driving.

  She and Trace swayed as the van turned a corner.

  A metallic sound startled her.

  Trace threw himself on her, slamming her onto the van’s floor. “Down!”

  Her skull struck the ridged metal floor. The sunglasses skittered away. Pain shot through her head and her mind spun.

  In a flash she realized that what she heard was the sound of bullets piercing the side of the van.

  Terror ripped through her like knives flaying her skin.

  “We’re under fire!” the driver shouted as he gunned the engine. Despite the terror, Christie registered that he had to be shouting the information over his Bluetooth.

  The van’s tires squealed.

  Another vehicle’s tires echoed the sound.

  Light came through round perforations in the white panels.

  Christie and Trace were thrown around the back of the van as the driver took tight turns.

  The driver shouted for backup as he drove.

  A pause in the rapid-fire.

  Trace started toward the coffin-sized wooden box.

  The metallic pings started again and Christie wanted to scream to Trace to get down, too.

  Oh, God. They were all going to die.

  Adrenaline pumped through Trace’s veins as he stayed low while he shoved up the lid on the box filled with weapons, extra body armor, and other vital equipment. Within seconds he had pulled out a lightweight assault rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, and flicked off the safety. He grabbed a flash-bang and shoved it into a pocket of the jumpsuit.

  “Stay flat on the floor,” he ordered Christie before he scooted closer to the front of the van.

  “On the right, coming up fast.” Rich, the agent driving the van swerved again. “That fucking car can move.”

  Rifle gripped in his hands, Trace climbed into the passenger seat. In the side view mirror he could see the car speeding up.

  He had a brief moment to be glad they were on one of the wide one-way streets and that it was a Saturday so that the downtown Phoenix streets were mostly empty.

  A man leaned out of the back passenger window of the approaching car that was even with the rear wheels of the van. The shooter aimed what looked to be an AR-15 assault rifle at the back of the van and pulled the trigger, spraying the back of the van with bullets.

  Trace’s focus narrowed on the shooter as he swung his own rifle so it was pointed at the man. Trace pulled the trigger, the rifle recoiling from the several shots he got off.

  Blood spurted from the shooter’s throat and blossomed on the front of the white wife-beater T-shirt he wore beneath a striped overshirt that fluttered in the wind.

  The shooter’s body went limp. The rifle tumbled to the street. His body hung half in and half out of the car.

  Just as Trace started to aim for the driver, Rich shouted, “Brace yourself.”

  Trace pulled back inside the van and grasped the “oh, shit” handle with one hand. He gripped the rifle in his other hand, just in time for Rich to drive the van through an empty intersection

  Rich jerked the steering wheel to the left, causing the van to swerve, and he rammed a vehicle coming up on the driver’s side. The impact jarred Trace’s teeth and Christie screamed as she slid across the floor and slammed against one side of the van and then slid across the floor to hit the other side.

  “How did they know Christie is in this van?” Trace shouted. “Or are all the vans under attack?”

  “All.” Rich clenched his teeth. “Stillwater is filling me in over the Bluetooth.” He glanced out the driver’s side mirror. “Shit. Here they come again.”

  Trace glanced at the passenger side mirror. “Goddamn but they’re coming fast on the right, too. I got one of the shooters, but there’s another.”

  “Watch out.” Rich hung a fast right onto yet another one-way street. “We’ve got to get out of downtown and lose these fuckers.”

  The side of Rich’s head exploded.

  Blood splattered Trace.

  Christie shrieked.

  Rich slumped onto the steering wheel. He landed on the horn and it blared.

  Trace tried to grab the steering wheel to get some kind of control. Rich’s dead weight slid off the wheel. He flopped to the side and his head landed in Trace’s lap.

  Rich’s foot still pressed the gas.

  The van sped toward a brick wall.

  Trace jerked the wheel to the right.

  The van lurched into a parking garage.

  The striped wood arm exploded as the van ran straight through it.

  Rich slipped f
urther to the side. His foot must have slid off the gas and the van began to slow.

  Trace’s heart was like a jackhammer.

  As he tried to wrestle control of the slowing vehicle, he chose the lesser of two evils.

  Instead of slamming into a concrete wall, he aimed the van for two parked cars.

  Metal crunched. Trace was flung forward, his head hitting the windshield. Stars sparked in his mind.

  Christie gave a loud cry, more of shock than pain. A mere instant of a thought flashed in his mind. As long as he heard her cries and screams, he knew she was alive.

  The van came to a hard stop and Trace was thrown back into his seat. His mind spun but he didn’t give into the dizzying sensation.

  Tires screeched, the sound echoing through the parking garage.

  Trace saw the first car come up on his right. He fumbled in his pocket as the car came to a screeching stop, the driver’s side window almost aligned with the passenger window of the van.

  Trace jammed his hand into his jumpsuit pocket. He grasped the flash bang and jerked it out.

  “Plug your ears, Christie.” Trace shouted. “Now.”

  Before the driver had a chance to use the gun he was bringing up to point at the van, Trace threw the flash bang through the car’s open window. It landed somewhere in the car. He saw the panicked look on the driver’s face.

  Trace dropped his rifle and stuffed his fingers in his ears. He ducked down in the van so he wouldn’t see the flash.

  Even with them plugged, his ears rang from the explosively loud flash bang. The flash was bright enough that he saw red behind his closed eyelids.

  Most of the sound and flash was contained in the car, which would easily have put its occupants out of commission.

  With a burst of strength, Trace pulled Rich’s body between the front seats so that he could see the car coming up on the other side.

  He drew his Walther 9mm from the special pocket in the jumpsuit.

  In the driver’s side view mirror, he saw two men shoving their doors open and climbing out, rifles raised

  Trace scrambled into the back of the van. He glanced at Christie and held his finger to his lips. She looked terrified but she nodded.

  He kept low, waiting just where he could see from between the seats. Adrenaline caused his heart to thunder and his body to vibrate. But his grip was steady as he braced his right hand with his left and aimed the gun at the open driver’s side window.

  A man with long hair and a sneer pointed his rifle into the van.

  Big mistake. When it came to close targets, a rifle was not the optimum choice. The man should have grabbed a handgun.

  The thought was fleeting as Trace aimed for the man’s forehead. The weapon’s report echoed in the van.

  A hole appeared in the man’s forehead. He dropped. Trace heard the clatter of the man’s rifle as it hit the concrete below.

  After sucking in a deep breath, Trace prepared for the second man to approach the window. Instead, the man retreated in a hurry. He bolted back to his car and then flung himself into the driver’s side.

  Trace climbed into the van’s driver’s seat at the same time the car’s tires squealed in the man’s rush to back up.

  Trace reached the window and aimed his Walther at the other car. The front window spider webbed and a hole appeared in the center of the webbed safety glass.

  The car didn’t stop. It shot forward, speeding out of the garage.

  Trace let out a breath. He knew the occupants of the other car would be incapacitated just long enough for him and Christie to get out of here.

  “Come on.” He looked over his shoulder and looked at Christie. She’d lost the brunette wig and her red hair was like a flame against her skin. “Grab the wig if it’s close.”

  She looked dazed but she immediately picked up the bundle of hair. She lurched toward the front.

  He swept his gaze over her. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Her expression turned fearful. “You’re bleeding. Your neck.”

  He was so pumped with adrenaline that he felt nothing. “It’s fine. Hurry.”

  She obeyed and she scurried up to him. They climbed out of the van. He heard the sounds of the men in the other car as they moaned and groaned. Someone was retching so loud it echoed in the concrete building.

  Trace swept the garage with his gaze and saw nothing that concerned him. He looked over his shoulder and held up his hand to tell Christie to wait. She froze in place. He continued forward and peered around the van.

  The shooter Trace had killed earlier was still hanging half in and half out of the car. Blood had flowed down the side of the car but was drying.

  Two men in the car stirred. Trace watched as the clearly dazed men began fumbling with weapons. Trace took careful aim at the driver as the man started to open his door.

  When the door was open a foot, Trace leveled his weapon at the man’s chest, center mass. Trace pulled the trigger and shot the man three times. The man slumped to the side and fell out of the car. He hit the concrete floor of the parking garage with a thump.

  Trace crouched and moved closer to the car. Through the open gap in the driver’s side door, he saw the other man leaning out the opposite window. It looked like he was vomiting, but Trace wasn’t sure since the man’s back was to him.

  His weapon in a two-handed grip, Trace neared the door. Just as he reached it, the other man swung around, a handgun in his grip.

  Trace pumped three shots into the man’s chest. The shots were loud in the garage.

  When he was certain both men were dead, he returned to Christie. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She nodded and he grabbed her hand. Instead of running out of the entrance and into the street where they had entered, he pulled her to the opposite side of the garage where the exit was located.

  He kept a grip on her hand as they hurried away from the garage. He’d had to come to Phoenix for work several times, but not enough to be too familiar with the buildings and definitely had no idea where a hotel might be in the downtown area.

  It was nearly dark now and he drew Christie into the shadows. He pulled out his cell phone and did a quick search for a hotel in downtown Phoenix. He found a small boutique hotel in a fairly close building and used the phone’s GPS to get directions.

  “Get out of the jumpsuit.” He helped her unbutton it and she stepped out of the suit after pulling it over her shoes. He gritted his teeth as his neck started to burn. He put his hand up to it and it came away streaked with blood.

  “I think it’s superficial.” Christie peered at it and frowned as she looked at him. “But we need to get it cleaned up. You also have a huge lump and cut on your forehead.”

  “I’m fine.” He shed the jumpsuit as fast as she had. He wiped away the blood from his neck and forehead with the suit. Fortunately, the blood had only gotten on the suit and the wounds were already closing. They tossed the suits into a nearby garbage can. The body armor would stay on.

  Christie remained silent as they slipped through the growing darkness and hid with him in deep shadows, away from streetlights when the occasional car passed by. One thing about downtown Phoenix, if a baseball game or convention wasn’t going on, most parts of the area were dead.

  He felt no relief when they reached the small hotel. He wouldn’t feel relief until Christie testified.

  The lone clerk gave them an odd look as they walked inside. No doubt the body armor drew her attention.

  “We need a room.” Trace pulled out his creds and showed them to the clerk. “Your absolute discretion is required. Are any employees around?”

  The large-boned woman with black hair shook her head. “Not right now. We only have one room. It’s a king.” She gave him a steep price, par for the course in Phoenix in the winter months, which were the busiest times of the year.

  “We’ll take it.” Trace gave her his bankcard. “I need you to hurry.”

  She did and it wasn’t long before Trac
e and Christie were headed upstairs on the lone elevator.

  He focused on Christie, who looked pale and exhausted. After everything she’d been through today, it was a wonder she was holding together as well as she was. Some people would have fallen apart by now.

  When they finally reached the room, Trace was pleased to find it was a heavy metal door and it had a sturdy bolt lock.

  Christie walked into the room then turned to look at Trace. The next thing he knew, she was in his arms and they were holding on to each other with a fierceness that he’d never known before.

  Chapter Twelve

  The monster slammed Salvatore up against the cell’s concrete wall when the guard left. Salvatore’s skull hit the wall with a hard thunk as John rammed him against the wall again.

  Salvatore’s mind swam. He’d never expected to share a cell with the massive man and had walked on eggshells ever since they were forced into the same cramped space. He had known the man was watching him, but he was the kind of man whose expression never changed. He always looked like he wanted to kill anyone around him.

  And now John was going to kill Salvatore.

  He felt blood roll from his scalp, down the side of his face.

  The monster, who never did more than growl, put his mouth near Salvatore’s ear. He wasn’t surprised that John’s voice was deep, even as he kept his voice low.

  “El Verdugo grows tired of this game. If he can’t kill your ex-wife, then he’s going to kill you.” John’s voice was controlled as he shoved Salvatore’s face harder against the wall. “Problem solved, case closed. Blood ties do not matter when it comes to protecting the rest of the family.”

  Salvatore was surprised at John’s command of the English language. He’d expected the multi-tattooed brute to speak in monosyllables and slang.

  The thoughts of John’s speech were from Salvatore’s mind trying to escape the reality of his situation. El Verdugo, Salvatore’s blood relation, was going to have him killed if Christie testified and Salvatore was convicted. No doubt if he was convicted of the other charges, he’d be killed anyway.

  The only thing keeping him alive was the possibility that the jury would acquit him of everything, including murder and rape. Only Christie’s testimony could seal those last charges.