“Damn it, it’s locked,” I say and pull the door again out of frustration.
“He’s probably got the key.” Luke kneels down at the dead guard’s feet. I look over my shoulder. The group of guards is only two hundred yards away.
“There’s no time,” I yell over the gunfire and screaming in my ear. Luke rises to his feet but I push his body out of the way. “Stand back.”
I point my pistol up at the lock and pull the trigger. Bang. It slices through the metal and the lock falls to the ground. I pull at the barn door again and it slides open.
“Go, go, go,” I yell to Luke and push him inside. He enters, his weapon stretched in front of him, and I walk into the darkness, pulling the barn door shut behind me.
“Do you think they saw us come in here?” Luke whispers to me, his breath heavy.
“I don’t know but let’s move,” I say, still trying to catch my own breath. Luke and I take another step into the barn, our weapons still in front of us. “Do you see them?”
“I can’t see anything,” Luke says and looks from left to right in the almost pitch-black barn. Dark shadows resembling hay and shovels and rakes are the only things we see.
“Mom, Dad?” I call out, my voice beginning to shake. What if they’re not here? What if they’re already dead? Panicked, I yell again, “Mom?!”
“Reagan?” I hear my father’s gravelly voice say from somewhere in the darkness. A lump lodges in my throat at the sound of his voice.
“Dad, where are you?” I ask, pushing back stacks of hay and sheets and garbage. As my eyes adjust to the black, Luke pulls out a flashlight the size of a pen.
“Back corner,” Dad says, his voice almost a whisper. I can barely hear him over the eruption of gunfire. The other armed guards have arrived.
Luke’s light scans the barn and finally I see him, crouched behind a stack of hay.
“Oh my God,” Luke says, and as I run closer, I see why. Dad’s face is bruised and crusted with old and new blood. His left eye is purple and swollen shut. His lip has been split and his right cheek is slashed. I push my way through the barn, not even sure what I’m shoving out of the way. As I reach him, tears swim in the only eye he’s able to open.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he asks, pressing his swollen lips together. A tear falls from his right eye and is caught by the open wound on his cheek.
“I couldn’t stand by and watch another mission get blown,” I say and touch the only remaining unbruised spot of his cheek.
Dad moves his arm toward me but something holds him back. Metal scrapes against metal and I can see his right hand is handcuffed to a metal pipe against the wall. On the other side of the pipe is an empty set of handcuffs. My heart drops.
“Wait, where’s Mom?” I ask, staring at the empty space next to him.
“Torres took her inside a little bit ago,” Dad says, following my stare. His body begins to shake. He sucks in his swollen lip, trying to control his tears. “I’m afraid of what he’ll do to her before … before he…”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to her.” I shake my head, the lump thickening in my throat. I try to swallow it away but can’t. I can’t bury the emotions. Not now.
I pull my Glock 22 pistol out from the back of my pants. “Pull your chain as tight as you can.”
I can see the metal digging into his skin and the pain on his face. I point my pistol at the exposed links and pull the trigger. Without a silencer on my pistol, the pop of the gun fills the barn and rattles against my chest. The bullet rips through the link, slicing the handcuffs in half. Dad pulls his free hand away as the other cuff scrapes down the pipe and hits the dirty, hay-covered ground.
Dad cradles his sore hand to his stomach and reaches up to me with his left hand. I kneel on the ground and let him pull me into his body. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his chest. He’s lost his scent of aftershave and fresh linen and smells of sweat and blood and dirt. As much as I thought this moment would be filled with love and relief, I just can’t get there. I’m filled with rage. His swollen eye and bloodied face, my father, beaten and broken down.
Bang. A bullet rips through the barn wall, twenty feet behind us. I break free of Dad’s embrace and pull him off the ground.
“We have to get him out of here,” I say, draping Dad’s arm around my shoulder. “Where’s the truck?”
“I’m pulling into the field now,” Eduardo says in my ear. “I’m fifty yards away from the barn.”
“Can you walk that far?” I ask as Dad limps toward the barn door, half of his body weight on my shoulders and back.
“I can make it,” Dad says, clutching his left knee, his face wincing, his breaths short and shallow.
“Laz, Sam, we’ve got Dad, but Mom’s in the house. What’s going on out there?” I say, holding my hand up to my earpiece. Another shot rings out from somewhere outside and I can hear grunts and heavy breathing, the telltale signs of hand-to-hand combat. No one answers me.
“Thomas, what’s going on outside?” Luke says, taking Dad’s other arm and draping it around his shoulder.
“Stand by, we’re looking,” Thomas says. “The images are coming in on a delay.”
Come on, come on. I press my lips together and stare out the tiny window at the front of the barn. The field in front of me is clear and the house lights are all on. Mom, where are you?
“Looks like all the activity is in the back of the barn,” Thomas finally answers. “Our guys are still up but six guards are down. Two are still fighting off our guys, but everything is happening twenty yards behind you. You’re fine to exit the barn, but go now.”
I shift Dad’s weight onto Luke, pull open the barn door, and point my gun outside. I inch my way out, scanning the grounds for guards or any other shooters. Another bullet cracks through the air behind me and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Another guard down,” I hear Laz yell in my ear.
I wave Luke back outside and into the moonlight. Eduardo flashes the headlights in the truck. “Take Dad to the truck,” I say to Luke and kiss my father on his swollen cheek. “I’m going to get Mom.”
“Reagan, don’t. Torres will kill you the second you step foot in that house,” Dad protests.
“Reagan, get in the truck with your father,” Thomas says in my ear. “That’s a direct order.”
“No, Thomas. I’m not taking orders from you right now,” I say and grab my father’s hand. “I’m going to find her. I promise.”
“Reagan, don’t,” Dad begs, tears welling up in his eyes. “I cannot lose you both.”
But there’s nothing he can do to stop me. There’s nothing he can say to get me on that truck.
“Reagan, no…” Luke yells after me.
But I’m already running toward the house. The anger that started in my heart has pumped through my veins and circulated through my entire body. A fire burns with every step, growing with each stride, until I cannot feel the strike of my heel or the wind on my face. All I feel is heat.
“She’s entering the house to find Elizabeth. Someone stop her,” I hear Thomas say in my ear.
“Reagan, get back here,” Sam pleads.
“Reagan, get in the truck, please,” Cooper says, his voice harsh. “This is what Torres wants. He wants…”
“Goddammit,” my mouth hisses as I yank out my earpiece and shove it in my pocket, quieting their protests.
My blood is hot and my muscles feel like they’re being pulled apart. I dig my heels into the ground. Run faster, run faster, run faster. My legs stretch out further, pulling me closer and closer to the house. Two hundred yards. One hundred yards. Fifty yards. Twenty yards. I grip my weapon as I reach the back patio. No one is around. My fingers grasp the cool metal handle of the guest room door.
“I’m coming, Mom,” I whisper. I pull down on the handle and swing the door open. I point my gun into the guest room. It’s dark and empty. I listen for footsteps, for gunshots. I hear
nothing. “I’m coming.”
THIRTY
I step inside the dark room. A king-size four-poster bed is against the wall to the right. A fireplace and sitting area with two chairs and a small table is to my left. Where is the freaking door? I step quietly across the plush carpet, my gun still pointed in front of me. I see a thin line of pale light on the floor straight ahead. There it is. I cross the room and put my ear to the door, listening for what may be happening on the other side. I listen for footsteps or voices or screaming, but I hear nothing, just an eerie stillness. I stay there for another moment just to be sure, my hand on the doorknob, when I hear the tap, tap, tap of someone’s feet. But it’s not coming from the other side of the door, it’s coming from outside. Someone has followed me. I let go of the door handle and dive to my knees behind the bed.
The footsteps slow. I look through my scope and point the gun straight at the open door that leads to the brick patio. I see a long, thick shadow on the ground in the moonlight moving toward me. I tighten my grip on the gun and brace my finger to pull the trigger.
A man’s silhouette steps through the doorway, his gun pointed into the room. “Reagan?”
“Jesus Christ, Luke,” I whisper and lower my weapon. “You almost just got a bullet to the temple.”
“Sorry, I called for you the entire time I was running,” he says, lowering his weapon. “Why didn’t you answer?”
“I took out my earpiece,” I whisper and step around the bed toward him.
“Reagan, you can’t do that,” Luke says, grabbing me gently by the shoulder. “That’s like the number one thing Sam said. You need to stay in contact with everyone.”
“I can’t find her with everyone screaming in my ear to stop,” I whisper and search for his eyes in the darkness. The dim moonlight hides their color but I can still make out his long lashes. “What are you doing here? I told you to go to the truck with Dad.”
“I got him in the truck but then I came after you. There’s no way I’m going to let you do this by yourself,” he whispers. I should have known he’d never let me do something so dangerous alone. As much as I love him for it, I don’t think I can live with myself if he gets hurt.
“Please. Can I convince you to go back?” I whisper and grab his arm.
“Not a chance,” he says, putting his hand back on his weapon. “Where do you think they are?”
“I don’t know,” I say and do a mental scan of the house blueprint. Would he take her to a bedroom? No. The library? No. The garage? No. I put mental Xs on every room until I get to the basement. And then I remember the unfinished space down there. They’ve been torturing her. And as much as Torres loves to hurt people, the thick, rich carpet at my feet tells me he likes nice things. He wouldn’t want to get blood on his expensive furniture and floors. He needs a cold, dark, filthy room for his dirty work. “Let’s start in the basement.”
I press my ear to the door again and listen. Still nothing. I grip the door handle, pulling it all the way down so the metal doesn’t scrape against the doorjamb. Light from the hallway spills into the room as I lower my stance and peer into the hall. I look left, I look right. No one. I step into the hallway, my gun pointed in front of me. I motion for Luke to follow me into Santino Torres’s elaborate home.
The hallway to the right leads toward a large living room. I can see portions of an enormous gray sofa and a glass coffee table. Tall ornate lamps anchor both sides of the sofa and a vase holding a large purple orchid sits at the center of an antique trunk that’s being used as a side table.
To the left is another hallway. It’s dark and uninviting, but I know this is the way to the basement. With our backs up against the wall, we sidestep our way down the hallway, our heavy boots scraping against the dark woodwork. I lift each foot and set it down like a ballet dancer, touching down my toe, then the ball of my foot, then the heel, doing my best to not make a sound against the hardwood floors.
Black-and-white photographs cover the cream-colored walls. Beautiful pictures of the ocean, clouds, mountains, Colombia’s famous Cattleya orchid. Each photograph is matted against a white background and hangs in a simple, elegant black frame. There’s a certain softness to the pictures, the angles and the focus, something I wouldn’t expect a killer like Torres to collect.
We get to the end of the hallway. I bend my knees, lowering my stance, and peer around to the next hall. It’s empty. About fifty feet away is a dark wood door that I know leads to the basement stairs.
I hold up my hand, motioning for Luke to stop while I listen for creaking doors, even the sound of someone breathing. Still nothing. I raise my thumb, giving Luke the”all clear” sign. I whip my body around the wall, stretch out my arms, and point my gun down the empty hall. I wait another moment before taking the first step, my fingers tingling.
We press our backs up against the wall and sidestep our way toward the basement door. I hold my breath as we get closer. Forty more feet. Thirty more feet. Twenty more feet. Ten more feet.
Bang. The tip of Luke’s gun hits the side of the bookshelf and before I can even turn around, a guard has swung around the corner, his strong arm wrapped around Luke’s throat.
“Luke,” I say, raising my gun to fire at the guard, but before I can get my finger around the trigger, I feel myself fall backward. What the hell? I reach for the bookshelf along the wall to brace myself, but it’s disappeared. Suddenly, my breath is gone. I try to lean forward, but someone has grabbed me by the throat from behind. Holy shit, my head is screaming as a man pulls me away from Luke and into the hidden, pitch-black room with so much force, the heels of my boots drag against the hardwood floor.
I try to scream, but every wisp of air has been forced out of my lungs. I cannot breathe. The man’s grip tightens, crushing the bones in my neck. I flail my body and try to suck in new air but nothing comes. Sixty seconds more, I’ll be dead. Don’t let me die this way, my mind cries. God, don’t let me die this way.
I drop my weapon on the floor to free my hands. It lands with a blustering bang. I grab the man’s large right arm with both hands, grind my teeth, and pull down with all my strength. I feel him weaken, the tightness of his grip loosening so I can suck in a new breath.
“Puta, puta,” the man yells at me. Bitch, bitch. He tries to tighten the choke hold but I’ve already pulled his arm too far down. I feel his body weight to my right. I jut my left leg behind his, forcing him to lower his stance. I yank down on his arm and jerk my head out of his grasp. He yelps as I pull his right arm behind his body and across his muscular back.
“Mierda,” the man hollers as I pull his arm even tighter. Come on, come on, come on, I scream in my head. His arm fights back, pulling me forward, but I won’t let go. With his body off balance, I kick in the back of his knee with my left foot. He buckles under the force of my strike and falls to the ground. I pull away and try to run for the door, but he still has me by the wrist and yanks me down on top of him.
My elbow strikes the ground first and my body lands beside his with a thud. Pain rushes up my arm and through my entire body, but I push it away. He holds my left hand down on the ground and struggles to get on top of me. I knee him in the stomach and swing my free arm to punch him in the face. My fist strikes his nose. I hear a pop and feel his bones shatter against the back of my fist.
“Puta,” he screams, letting go of the tight grip on my arm and raising both hands to his bleeding face. This is my chance. With nothing holding me back, I rise to my knees and put out one foot to stand up. He leans forward and grabs me by my thick ponytail. I scream as he yanks me back onto the ground, my head slamming against the hardwood floor.
Now he’s really pissed. “Bitch,” he thunders in English. He climbs on top of me, his legs straddled on either side of my stomach. Before I can throw another punch, his hands are wrapped around my neck.
I cough and try to breathe. I bring my hands up to pry his fingers away from me, but I can’t loosen his grip. I twist and kick my legs, but he’s
too heavy. His hands push down even harder on my neck. My lungs are screaming for new air that doesn’t come and I feel like I’m drowning.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” the man says to me, his mouth spitting every word. The blood from his broken nose drips down onto my face and inside my mouth. It tastes metallic and bitter and dirty. I shake my head. I try to spit it out but can’t find the air. “Your parents killed my nephew. I had to watch him die. I hoped you would come so I could look in your eyes while I kill you.”
I turn my face toward him. My eyes adjust to the darkness as my mind registers that he’s not just another one of Torres’s White Angels. I’m looking into the face of his brother and partner, a man as notorious a killer as Torres himself. His eyes are filled with so much hate, so much anger and rage. I panic as I realize his dark eyes may be the last thing I ever see.
My hands pull again at his fingers while I kick and twist and dig my feet into the ground to lift him, but he’s two hundred and fifty pounds. He pushes down even harder on my neck.
“Die, puta,” he hisses, his face inching closer to mine. “Die.”
His eyes flash with frustration. I twist once more and slide my hand along the hardwood floor. I feel the top of my pants. My fingers crawl further down my side. Please, God. Please, God. Please, God. And then I feel it, the metal handle of my knife.
“Die, puta.” He’s now screaming in my face. I can feel my body fading. Shiny silver sparks are in my peripheral vision. They creep closer into my eye line, and behind it is nothing. Black. Death.
No. No. No. My head is screaming. Not like this. Not this way.
With every ounce of strength I can find in my dying body, I drag the knife from its hiding place in the side of my pants.
“Die, puta,” he shouts again. He’s so close to my face, he doesn’t see the knife in the air. I hold the knife above his head, then with a last burst of dying strength, I slam it into the side of his neck. His eyes widen and his mouth drops as the metal penetrates his skin. He finally loosens the grip on my neck.
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