Fast Justice

by Kaylea Cross

  Oceane stood to face them, her creamy-brown skin pale, her blue-gray eyes full of sadness. Her mother sat at the table mopping her eyes with a tissue, her shoulders shaking with residual shuddering breaths.

  Mal stopped walking. Lockhart stayed exactly where he was, both of them watching Oceane. She walked into the living room, chin up, with the intrinsically proud and elegant bearing of a woman raised in the lap of untold luxury—and a former security that had been completely, irrevocably shattered.

  “We’ve talked it over,” she began in accented English, her voice soft but steady. “And we’ve decided that it’s best if we enter the WITSEC program.”

  Oh, thank you, Jesus. Mal shot a relieved look at Lockhart.

  His teammate still hadn’t moved, watching her, expression giving nothing away. His almost preternatural stillness was a dead giveaway to his sniper background to someone with military training. “I think that’s a good decision,” Lockhart said.

  Oceane took a deep breath. “So will you call them and let them know?”

  “Sure.” With that, Lockhart was up and off the couch, phone in hand as he dialed someone. Probably Taggart. “Better go get your stuff together,” he told her. “Once we pull the trigger, things are gonna move fast.”

  Unable to not feel a slight twinge of sympathy for her and her mother, Mal gave her an encouraging smile and gestured for her to head to the bedroom so she could start packing while he watched.

  She might not see it now, but this was the best decision for everyone. WITSEC would give her and her mother the best protection available. It also meant Mal was free to rejoin his team—and find a way to see Rowan the first chance he got.

  ****

  “It’s done?” Manny said into his phone as he left his lawyer’s office, where he’d just finished a meeting about his estate and Oceane.

  At the curb, two of his men were standing guard beside his new Jag, which gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Elena was out at one of his charity’s auctions and wouldn’t be home for hours. Manny was looking forward to having the house to himself for the rest of the day and not worrying about her overhearing anything she shouldn’t.

  “Oh yeah,” Montoya replied enthusiastically from the other end. “Killed every last one of the fuckers.”

  Manny frowned in annoyance and climbed into his car, quickly slamming the door shut behind him. Body count was of little importance to him. Results were. “What about the operation?”

  “Main lab and all the outbuildings are in ashes. Along with the homes and businesses of anyone suspected to support Ruiz.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a deep breath. “Please tell me you kept it to the known suspects.”

  Montoya snickered. “Yeah, them too.”

  God. Manny sank into the plush leather driver’s seat, suddenly bone weary, and leaned his head back. Too much collateral damage would bring unwanted heat down on him and the cartel. Bribing and blackmailing officials down here was common practice, but every once in a while he ran into someone who wasn’t corruptible. That made his work a lot harder. “I told you to be careful. You were to have your guys take out the operation and those responsible for it only.”

  “Which I did, mostly. But it never hurts to send a message, does it? Besides, we had a little help from El Escorpion.”

  At that Manny opened his eyes and lowered his hand to his lap. It was rare for the shadowy head of the cartel to get involved on that level. “He sent men to assist?”

  “A few. Mostly weapons and logistics stuff.”

  So then El Escorpion would be briefed directly about the op, and probably knew all the details already. Including the collateral damage and body count. Shit. “Send me a report through the secure channel asap.”

  “You got it, boss man.”

  Manny glanced out the driver’s side window. This business district of downtown was quiet, people going about their day and not paying him much notice. He basically owned this entire town, and the smaller surrounding ones as well. He paid his people well and gave enough back to the community that every man, woman and child for miles around here considered him a hero philanthropist. He couldn’t afford for them to find out all the things he’d ordered and allowed in order to make and keep that money.

  “What about my daughter?” he asked.

  “No sign yet. Obviously no financial or social media activity we can use. I’ve got others out using the scanners around the city. Should be able to detect a faint signal from around a kilometer out. If they get a signal on the tracking device, they’ll let me know.”

  Manny shoved out a hard breath and started the engine. “Let someone else handle the upcoming operations on Ruiz’s people. The only thing I want you to do is find them and bring my daughter back to me.”

  He paused, his heart heavy, an uncomfortable ball of guilt squirming in his belly. If there had been any other way to handle this, he would have. But he was out of options and out of time, so it had to be this. He would contact Arturo and initiate everything. “You know what to do.”

  “Looking forward to it, boss man.”

  Yeah. That’s what worried him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the time Oceane was on her way back to the new safehouse location—a tidy little bungalow with a green lawn in a residential area of a suburb outside of D.C.—she was mentally and physically exhausted. Two U.S. Marshals rode in the armored SUV with her, a female driver and a male in the backseat with her. Both were armed, and if she’d thought Agent Lockhart was unfriendly, these two were borderline hostile in their demeanors.

  The marshals had arrived soon after Lockhart had placed the call to his commander. They hadn’t messed around. Within minutes of them walking in the condo, they rushed her and her mother down to separate vehicles waiting in the underground parking lot, where they’d been blindfolded and driven to this little house. A special arrangement made at the last moment for them.

  The U.S. Marshals Service had told her that normally people in the WITSEC program were taken to a kind of orientation center in D.C. where they stayed with other federal witnesses until the trial they were to testify at was over. Then they were given a new life in a different city under carefully constructed aliases.

  In her and her mother’s case, that couldn’t happen because of a particular snag. Victoria Gomez was also in WITSEC, at the orientation center, and officials didn’t want them all at the same facility for security reasons. Miss Gomez would be testifying directly against Ruiz in the upcoming trial, whenever that happened, so for now Oceane and her mother were here in this little house.

  She’d had just enough time to unpack and get acquainted with the layout of the place before her security detail had whisked her off to DEA headquarters for another meeting, while her mother stayed at the house. The FBI and DEA no longer believed she was involved with the bombing at the law office, but they were pressuring her to help them find Arturo. Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was, and even if she had, she wouldn’t tell them. Arturo was a trusted protector and friend. She wouldn’t turn on him after all he’d done to protect her.

  They arrived back at the house around dinnertime. The neighborhood was quiet, only a few young mothers out walking their babies in strollers or kids riding their bikes up the sidewalks. Watching them, Oceane envied their freedom and carefree lives. But there was no point in wallowing in self pity or wishing things could be different, because her situation was fixed now and there was no going back.

  She’d lost a lot by coming here, but she and her mother still had each other, and that was the most important thing. That would have to be enough to sustain them both through whatever came at them from here forward.

  The driver pulled into the driveway and continued past the house, up to the fence that marked the edge of the backyard. Her mother had wanted to cook dinner rather than order takeout, so they’d arranged for someone to run out and grab the groceries.

  Anticipating some good old-fashioned Mexic
an comfort food, her stomach growled hungrily as the male marshal, Smythe, opened the back door for her. He went to the fence, opened it, and stopped dead. The way he froze sent a burst of alarm through her.

  He held out an arm to stop her. “Stay here,” he commanded, and withdrew a pistol from his shoulder holster.

  Frightened now, Oceane peered over his shoulder, wide-eyed as he stepped through into the backyard while his partner rushed up behind her, weapon drawn, and set a restraining hand on her shoulder. The back door to the house was open, sagging crookedly on its hinges.

  One of the marshals tasked with protecting her mother lay facedown on the grass, arms flung out.

  She sucked in a sharp breath, started to turn toward the female marshal behind her, but the gasp turned into a horrified cry as the ruined door flung open and her mother appeared in it, naked, blood dripping down her body from what looked like numerous knife wounds.

  Her dark brown eyes were wide, glazed with terror and pain, but they locked on Oceane. “Corres,” she yelled, her voice desperate, filled with a frantic urgency that raised the hair on Oceane’s arms.

  Run.

  Oceane’s scream was cut short as Smythe charged back to the fence, grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. She fought him, clawed at his restraining hands, needing to see what was happening with her mother.

  A series of gunshots behind her shattered the soft evening air.

  Wrenching her head around, Oceane cast a desperate glance over her shoulder in time to see a man burst out of the house holding a pistol. The female marshal fired. The man fell, clutching his chest. The female marshal was down too, and Oceane’s mother had fallen into a bloody heap on the grass.

  “Mami!” She screamed it, the word exploding from her as she struggled to tear free from Smythe. He tackled her to the ground and pinned her beneath him, issuing rapid orders via his earpiece.

  A sound of rage and grief tore from her as she twisted and fought to get away. “Let me go! I need to get to my mother!” She was lying there just meters away, bleeding, helpless.

  “Don’t move,” he ground out, and squashed her flat beneath his weight, rattling off more commands.

  Running footsteps sounded to her left. Smythe swung around, raised his weapon and fired just as an armed man wearing a hoodie appeared around the side of the house.

  More shots rang out. Bullets pinged off the side of the SUV, inches from where she and Smythe lay on the ground. He grunted but didn’t move. She gasped and covered her head with her arms, heart rocketing into her throat. Where were the other marshals? Were they all dead?

  Smythe fired again, and the attacker’s footsteps stopped. A quiet thud sounded, followed by a low groan.

  Before Oceane could raise her head to see what had happened, Smythe hauled her to her knees and dragged her behind the cover of the side of the SUV. He reached up to fumble with the door handle, his breathing labored, and when she glanced down she saw blood running out from beneath the fingers he pressed to his side.

  “Get in,” he rasped, giving her a shove. “It’s armored. Stay down and don’t move until I say otherwise.”

  “No, my mother—”

  “I’m going to her. Lock the doors and don’t move.”

  She almost crawled across the seat and bolted out the other door, but there might be more attackers and Smythe would just chase her down, wasting precious time he could be using to help her mother. Shaking, fighting back frightened tears, she lay sideways on the leather bench seat and closed her eyes, listening, praying…

  Please, God. Please don’t take my mother from me. I can’t bear it. Not that.

  She prayed it over and over, her lips moving, teeth chattering at the sudden blast of ice freezing her insides. She wasn’t sure how long she lay like that. Minutes. Hours. Then sirens screamed in the distance, getting nearer.

  Oceane sat up, stared through the windshield toward the backyard. The gate was open but there was no sign of Smythe, and no one else was around.

  Heart pounding, she climbed into the front seat because the rear doors couldn’t be unlocked from the inside, opened it and slid out. Her knees almost gave way when her feet hit the grass.

  On wobbly legs she hurried to the gate, kept her back to it as she darted a glance into the yard. Smythe was on his knees beside her mother, who was sprawled out on her back, head lolling to the side, facing Oceane. He’d stripped off his jacket and shirt, using them to try and staunch the bleeding from the knife wounds.

  Her mother’s pain-filled dark eyes focused on her, a flare of relief flashing through them. “Oceane…” she managed weakly.

  Smythe jerked his head up, let out a snarled curse when he saw her standing there. “Get back into the vehicle, now.”

  Ignoring him, not caring what he did to her, she rushed to her mother’s side and dropped to her knees to grip the limp hand in hers. “Mami,” she choked out. God, there was so much blood. Angry slashes at her throat, chest and belly. Her breasts lacerated. And there was more between her thighs…

  Oceane swallowed, fought the wave of nausea that clenched her belly. They had raped and cut her. “Who did this?” she demanded, rage flooding her system.

  Her mother seemed to struggle to keep her eyes open, focused on Oceane briefly before rolling toward the house. “Ar…Arturo.”

  The shattered remnants of Oceane’s heart plummeted into the pit of her roiling stomach. No. No, it couldn’t be.

  “Where’s Arturo?” Smythe demanded in Spanish, leaning over her mother, his voice urgent. “Is he still here?”

  “In…side. Run, baby,” her mother said to her weakly, her eyes sliding shut.

  A deep, burning rage took over, obliterating fear, wiping out all thoughts except for one: Arutro would die for this.

  Oceane was up and running toward the house before she even realized what she was doing. Smythe’s shout to stop barely registered, the need for vengeance so strong she didn’t care what happened to her.

  Her gaze caught on the pistol in the fallen marshal’s outstretched hand. She bent down to scoop it up on her way past, barely breaking stride, and plunged into the back door of the house.

  “Arturo!” she bellowed, weapon firmly in her grip as she burst into the kitchen.

  The scent of her mother’s famous enchilada sauce hung heavy in the air, the pots and pans still simmering on the stove. It looked like a horror movie set. Blood spattered the floor, smears of it going up the walls, the cabinets. Bloody footprints led toward the back door, and away toward the living room beyond it.

  Her muscles were tight as steel cables, her gaze scanning restlessly for a target. A shadow moved in the living room, just beyond the kitchen.

  Blood trailed along the hardwood floor, over toward the powder room. Someone had tried to wipe it up but hadn’t done a good job in their haste. Whoever it was, she hoped they were in as much pain as her mother.

  The shadow detached itself from the wall and a man’s silhouette filled the darkened hallway. Oceane’s nape prickled, her heart slamming against her chest wall.

  Arturo.

  The sight of him pierced her. He had a hand pressed to the front of his ribs. Blood glistened on his fingers and his breathing was quick and shallow. He held a pistol in his other hand.

  Hands surprisingly steady, she raised her weapon, felt no fear as she stared down the barrel of the pistol. He had taught her to shoot. Had turned her into an expert shot, all in case she ever needed to defend herself and her mother.

  She had never dreamed she would need to use it against him.

  “Oceane, put the gun down,” he said in Spanish in a low voice, so familiar that pain lanced through her.

  A sheen of tears blurred her eyes as she stared back at him, the betrayal so acute it shredded her. “How could you?” she choked out, barely able to speak. How had he found them?

  “You don’t understand. Put the gun down and come with me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She shook her head,
a wave of nausea mixing with rage and despair. He’d betrayed them. “Liar. You fucking liar!” She pulled the trigger. The shot exploded in the silent hallway. Arturo grunted and dropped to his knees, his gun hand falling to his side.

  “Wait,” he gasped, reaching for the wall to steady himself, his face a mask of pain.

  You cut my mother.

  She fired again, hit him in the chest this time. Her whole body was shaking, tears pouring down her face. He’d betrayed them. The man she had trusted more than any other, and had risked so much to ensure her safety.

  “Why?” she demanded, stepping closer, sickened by what she’d had to do. “Why, dammit?”

  In the dimness his dark, glassy eyes rolled toward her. Blood bubbled out of his mouth, his nose. He choked, coughed. “Your father…”

  She went even colder inside, the pain unbearable.

  “Wants you…back. Had…to—” He broke off, choking.

  Oceane turned her back on him, leaving him to die in the hall and swept the rest of the house for more threats. She found a man in a dark hoodie sprawled out on the master bedroom floor, his pants down around his ankles. Bile rushed into her throat at the thought of this pig violating her mother. She hoped her mother had killed him.

  In a daze she went back outside, the dying sun too bright against her eyes. Marshal Smythe was slumped on his side now, barely having the strength to raise his head to look at her.

  “They’re all dead,” she said woodenly in English, setting the pistol on the grass before kneeling next to her mother. Oceane took one chilled hand in her own and pressed it to her cheek, letting the tears track down her face. The sirens were in the driveway now. Help coming too late. Too late.

  “We’re safe now, Mami,” she whispered in Spanish. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Her mother didn’t answer, her chest barely moving with her too-shallow breaths, and deep down, Oceane knew that nothing would ever be all right again.