You . . . she thought, dazed.
* * *
THE woman was drenched with her own blood. Restrained for now, cable ties holding her in place. He didn’t spare her more than a glance because she didn’t matter.
All that mattered was Ignacio Reyes, and the man was all but clawing at his ears. An attempt to silence Vaughnne’s voice, Gus supposed.
“Vaughnne.”
“I’m done,” she said, edging around him.
He stared at Reyes, waiting until the man lowered his hands, until he looked around. His gaze sought out Jorge. When he saw the corpse on the floor behind the other agent, there was only a flicker of his lashes to betray his emotions. No sign of fear showed on his face, in his eyes.
Nothing.
“So.” Reyes kept his body averted.
The man was a fool, thinking that would hide what he was doing.
“You finally return, Gustavo,” Reyes said as he drew the gun out.
“For you.” Gus smiled. “I always did want to come back for you.”
“And where is my son?”
“Where you’ll never get him.”
Reyes laughed, the malicious chuckle echoing through the room for a long, lingering moment. He spun around, already lifting the Derringer he’d been using his body to conceal. It didn’t bring Gus as much pleasure as he’d like to aim, squeeze.
The man went down with a scream, the weapon falling from his hand, his arm rendered useless.
“A useful piece of advice, cabrón,” Gus said, striding over to him and kicking the Derringer away. “Hide the weapon better. Don’t let me see it until you’re ready to pull the trigger.”
He pressed the muzzle of his Sig Sauer to Reyes’s temple. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of this moment.”
“Go ahead, hijo de la chingada. Kill me. Just like you killed my wife.”
* * *
THOSE words froze the very heart of her. Vaughnne lifted her head and looked at Gus’s profile.
She never should have looked.
He must have felt her stare because he turned his head, glanced at her for just a second. Less.
And the bastard bleeding on the floor moved, shoving back and swiping out with his uninjured arm.
When he moved again, he had a knife in his hand.
Time slowed down to a crawl and she saw Gus jerk back, saw him lifting his weapon even as Ignacio Reyes shoved the blade into Gus’s side.
“Die, you stupid cabrón.”
Two shots rang out.
Vaughnne had no idea which one killed him.
The one she put through his head, or the one Gus put through his heart.
But Ignacio Reyes was down, his eyes sightless and fixed on the ceiling. Blood oozed from the wound to his right forearm. All of it spilled on the floor, turning it a deep, deep red.
Looking up, she stared at Gus.
But he’d already turned his back.
“He killed the boy’s mother,” Nalini said, her voice tight and low. “I saw it, Vaughnne.”
Picking up the pocket knife she’d been using to cut Nalini free, she focused on just that task. Just that.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” she said quietly.
She’d heard her. She even believed it was true. Not so much because Nalini insisted.
But because of the very plain and simple fact that Gus wouldn’t look at her.
TWENTY-TWO
“YOU must promise me, Gustavo.”
“Consuelo, stop this foolishness. Come now. Put your arms around my neck.” Urgency was a constant alarm in his head. The boy was safe—he’d called in so many favors to get here, and Jimmy Doucet was at the door, clutching a terrified Alejandro in his arms. There weren’t many he’d trust with his family, but the old Cajun was one, and he had come without asking a single question.
Gustavo went to pick up his sister, fury twisting in him as he felt the odd, almost pulpy feel along her right side. So many ribs, broken. “No,” she said, flinching away and then gasping as even the pain from that tore through her. “I cannot go with you, ’mano. Listen to me, you have to get him away. I will slow you down and he’ll get Alejandro. He can never do that. Never. You must promise me he’ll never touch him again. Never find him.”
“He won’t,” he said, trying to calm her. “Now let’s go before they realize we are here.”
“I can’t walk,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t run.”
She started to cough and there was blood trickling from her mouth when the fit finally passed.
“Gus, if we’re going, son, we gotta go now,” Doucet said, his voice low and urgent.
“Have him and Alejandro wait outside,” she said, her voice softer, weaker.
Once the door closed behind him, Consuelo closed her eyes. “I’ll never make it to the border. And if you take me, all of you die.”
He froze at the look in her eyes. Despite the pain she was in, despite the blood and the bruises, she watched him with an eerie sort of calm. “Listen to me, ’mano,” she said, her voice getting weaker. “I know you do not understand, but please try. I know what will happen if you take me. He’ll catch us. I . . . I’ve seen it, Gustavo. He’ll catch us. He’ll kill you . . . I’m dead already. And he’ll do as he wishes with Alejandro. You have to protect him now.”
“No,” Gustavo said, shaking his head even as denial roared inside him. He brushed her hair back. “Come now. Hold on to me.”
“I’ve seen it,” she whispered. And then she told him just what she’d seen.
He froze. And then, defeated, he dropped his head onto the bed next to her, closer to sobbing than he’d ever been in his adult life. There was no room for tears, he knew, but they wanted to come nonetheless.
Back when she’d been a child, Consuelo had been a child whom many had mocked. She did see things. Mamá had believed her, had insisted their grandmother had been the same. Neither Mamá nor Gus had the ability, but Consuelo . . .
“You can save my son, Gustavo. But you cannot save me. I cannot even move. It hurts to breathe, hurts to even lie here. Please . . . you must promise me. Take him, keep him safe. And don’t . . . please don’t let Ignacio hurt me anymore. If he tries to make me talk, I . . .” She shook her head and reached for his hand. “I can’t keep fighting him.”
Unwittingly, he lifted his weapon hand, the one still clutching the Sig Sauer to stroke her brow. She caught his wrist and lifted it, guiding the weapon to her temple.
He jerked away. “Consuelo!”
“If he finds me alive, he will try to make me talk. I am not as strong as you. Please, Gustavo. You must protect my son . . . you must do this for me.”
* * *
HIS gut roiled, even now.
The guilt he’d kept buried raged to the surface as he moved out of the dark, dank little building.
It had been there that he’d found his sister. She, too, had been tied up. But she’d been tied to a cot, left naked and uncovered, so every violation had been there. For all the world to see.
And because he had made her a promise, to save Alejandro, he’d left her. Just like that, after he’d put a bullet through her heart.
There was a soft whisper of sound and he turned, saw Vaughnne standing in the doorway, her friend’s arm slung over her shoulder.
Vaughnne stared at him.
He returned that gaze without blinking, letting her see every ugly truth on his face.
“If you are going to ask if it is true,” he said, schooling his voice into a bored, flat tone. “Don’t bother, Vaughnne.”
“I won’t. I can already tell it is. I just want to know why.”
The other woman was pale, so deathly pale, and she stared at Gus with eyes that were an odd mix of horror and fury. And in her hand, she clutched the Derringer that Reyes had tried to use on him. It was, yet again, leveled at him. “Vaughnne, we need to go. It doesn’t matter why. We have to get out of here before the rest of Reyes’s
men show up. I don’t want to die here, not just because you need to know why he killed his own sister.”
The look in her eyes was scathing and cold, but it didn’t affect him. He didn’t care what that woman said.
Vaughnne, though . . . the look on her face . . . it cut something deep inside him. It left a wound he wouldn’t have imagined possible. Still, he didn’t let it show as he looked from one woman to the other. “You should go. Get out while you can.”
“Are you going to answer me?”
He resumed his study of the night sky. And when she walked away, he closed his eyes. Blood dripped from the wound in his side, but he ignored it.
It was done, then.
Alejandro was safe.
He’d kept his promise.
He’d always thought it would kill him in the end.
This, he thought, was actually worse.
* * *
“YOU have no idea how much trouble you could have caused.”
There were only four of them in the room at the moment. Vaughnne and Nalini, along with Joss Crawford and Dr. Melissande Grady. Grady was settling Nalini into a chair that had been dug up from somewhere—an armchair, not one of those hard-ass chairs the rest of them would be in. Nalini looked like hell. She’d lost a decent amount of blood by the time Vaughnne was able to get her to a hospital, and the long, narrow line of sutures on her face stood out in stark relief against her pale skin. Grady murmured to her softly and Nalini nodded, and even that careful movement hurt like hell. Grady touched her shoulder and then moved away.
While Grady was playing doctor, Joss was busy ripping Vaughnne a new asshole.
“Were you trying to get yourself thrown in jail?” he demanded. “Trying to cost yourself your job? Cause an international incident or what?”
She gave him a sweet smile. “Well, if those were my intentions, I obviously failed, right? After all, I’m not in jail, there was no international incident.”
He waited a beat. “But do you still have a job?”
“Well, that’s not really up to you.” She settled back in her seat and stared outside. They’d just gotten out of Mexico early that morning, and although it was damn late and she was damn tired, she hadn’t been given the option to go home and rest.
No, she was at headquarters, getting debriefed. Well, waiting to get debriefed.
It had taken every last bit of Grady’s considerable diplomatic skills to get them out of Mexico so quickly. She’d lied through her teeth, too, while Joss stood in the background, looking brooding and menacing, which he did rather well.
Now they were waiting for the boss. It struck her as kind of odd that he wasn’t already there, but it was one of those random little thoughts that passed through her mind and then faded.
Just like every other thought of the past few days.
She couldn’t think.
Couldn’t focus.
Couldn’t sleep.
Couldn’t eat.
Nothing seemed to matter anymore, not since the moment she’d turned her back and walked away from Gus.
If you are going to ask if it is true . . . Don’t bother, Vaughnne.
Don’t bother. Like it didn’t matter at all if he’d killed his sister.
Don’t ask? Screw that. She knew it was true, she’d seen it on his face. Just as she’d seen the misery hidden in the back of his eyes. The misery, the pain. The grief. There had to be a reason, she told herself. She could feel it, in the very bottom of her soul. The man she’d come to know might be a killer, but he wasn’t a cold-blooded monster.
She damn well should have asked. Should have pushed. Yeah, there were reasons, all right. And fuck him to hell and back if he thought she just shouldn’t bother to ask.
Her gut churned as she continued to stare outside at the streets. It was late, but the streets were still crowded with cars and buses, people moving along the sidewalks.
What had happened?
Her mind spun, twisted with the possibilities. Had his sister been hurt? Sick? Maybe—
Before she could finish that thought, the door opened and she turned her head, watching as Jones came striding through the doors. He had a man with him, a man that Vaughnne was pretty damn certain she didn’t know.
She was equally certain that he could cause all kinds of problems. He stood solid, straight as a soldier, shoulders back, and even though he wasn’t obvious with it, she had a feeling he’d already looked and judged everybody in the room. Looked, marked the weaknesses, the strengths.
She didn’t much care for that.
“I’d like everybody to meet Antonio Moran. He’s in from Mexico . . . he has a few questions about a fire that took place at a private home, an hour west of Monterrey.”
A fire—
West of Monterrey.
Just like that, and her heart almost stopped. She kept her face blank, though, even as her pulse started to race, as her skin went cold and clammy and all the air squeezed out of her lungs.
A fire—
The world stopped spinning. She’d almost swear to it.
She’d taken Nalini to a hospital in Monterrey. They’d driven east. The home hadn’t been burning when she left. Jones wouldn’t have the guy in here if it was just some random house.
Gus—
Her heart went tight and cold, and there was a scream lodged in her throat.
“I’m attempting to locate a person of interest. I think he might have answers about the fire.” Moran studied her face. “You might have met him while you were in Mexico.”
“I was just there to help a fellow agent, Señor Moran,” she said, moving forward to take a seat. Despite her best attempts, her voice came out a little rougher than she liked. “She needed backup, so I was down there for that, and only that.”
That was the story they’d decided to go with. Nalini had been on an assignment; things had gone to hell. It wasn’t too terribly far from the truth. Except for the fact that Vaughnne hadn’t been sent to help Nalini, and she hadn’t been in Mexico on any sort of job . . . but . . . well. If Jones decided to come clean and let her fend for herself, she’d deal with it then. She’d made her choice.
“The house belonged to a man who has been under intense scrutiny by both my government and yours . . . Ignacio Reyes.”
“Reyes.” A knot swelled in her throat, so large and hard, she could barely talk. Her hands were sweaty and she swiped them down her jeans before reaching for the bottle of water waiting on the table. “Ignacio Reyes. Yeah, I’m familiar with the name. Were there any fatalities?”
“We are still investigating at this point.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she shot Jones a glance, struggling to keep her face blank even though all she wanted to do was jump over the table and demand that he tell her what in the hell was going on. Anything. Everything.
The calm look on his face shattered every last nerve she had and she knew he knew something. Hell, he might know everything. This was Taylor Jones, damn it.
Instead of attacking him, she looked back at Moran. “Exactly what can I do for you, then, señor?”
“I just had a few questions.”
Vaughnne leaned back in her chair and laced her hands over her belly. Maybe that would keep them from shaking so much. “Well, I’m not sure how much help I can be, señor. Reyes was a bastard, but we focus more on missing persons and crimes against children in this unit.” She paused then added, “It wouldn’t hurt my feelings, though, if I heard he’d died in the fire.”
A faint smile came and went on Moran’s face. “I imagine a great many feel the same way, Agent . . .”
“MacMeans. Vaughnne MacMeans.” All the bureaucratic games she had to play. What the hell was going on? “So were there fatalities? Reyes or anybody else?”
Moran studied her face for a long, long moment, and she had a feeling the question hadn’t been quite as subtle as she’d hoped. Hard to be subtle, though, when her heart felt like it was bleeding inside her chest. Gus . . . damn it,
Gus. What did you do?
“We’re still in the process of investigating, Agent MacMeans,” he said, inclining his head. “I’m actually not here for information on Reyes, though. I’m looking for information on somebody else. A man, about your age, perhaps a few years older.”
“This would be your . . . person of interest?” She made herself smile.
Gus.
As he placed his briefcase on the conference table, Vaughnne tried to breathe around the ache in her chest. Tried, but it was so damn hard. Her heart felt like it was broken and she wanted to demand answers but she had already messed things up so bad and she knew it.
Then Moran pulled out a slim file from the briefcase and opened it. A second later, she saw a picture. Her heart jumped into her throat and she was so very glad she’d had years to learn how to hide her reaction. When she saw Gus’s averted profile, everything inside her felt frozen. Ready to shatter at just one blow.
Unblinking, she stared at the grainy image. Oh, it was him. There was no denying it, even though it was a lousy picture. All she could see was his profile, the carved line of his jaw, the ball cap turned backward.
“Does he look at all familiar to you?”
She made herself sigh and lean forward, studying the picture under a pretense of trying to see it better. Gus . . . “Hell, that could be anybody, Señor Moran. Well. Not anybody.” She jerked her chin toward Jones. “It’s probably not him. It’s not Crawford.” She flicked a glance at the quiet, brooding agent by the wall. “Not too many people have a mug like his. I don’t think it’s you or me. But it could be a million men.”
No. Just one. One who’d proven to be rather good at blending in.
She wanted to reach out and snag the picture from Moran, clutch it close, and ask if he had more. Ask if he had news about Gus.
But she didn’t.
Something big was going on, and although fear curdled inside her heart, she wasn’t going to say a damn thing until she knew more. Not a damn thing. Too many things could make a bad situation even worse. For her . . . and worse, for Gus.
Moran held her gaze for a long moment. “Does that mean you do not know him?”
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