Nine Lives

by Sharon Sala

  Wilson glared at him without speaking and took off in a flurry of flying gravel and squealing tires. He laid down a trail of rubber on the highway for a good thirty feet before the car quit fish-tailing, and he didn’t look back. He figured the cop was pissed, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d promised Cat that he wouldn’t lose her, and now that he knew she was physically in pursuit, it was not the time to break his word.

  He’d no more than gotten back on I-35 when he heard Cat’s voice over his phone, only she wasn’t talking to him. From what he could tell, she was blowing smoke up some border guard’s ass. A short while later he heard her muttering to herself, and knew that she’d crossed the border. He could do nothing but follow, and pray that she had the good sense to talk to him and lead him in the right direction.

  Mark was rattled as hell and pissed about the handcuff on his wrist. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it off. He was going to have to wait until they were at the hacienda to do something about it. Every time he banged it against something, the jingle and clank reminded him of how close he’d come to failure.

  And that woman…Damn, but she was a bulldog. She’d taken a bite of his ass and wouldn’t let go. Next time they came face to face—and he knew there would be a next time—he was going to find out who the hell she was, and then he was going to kill her.

  He fidgeted angrily with the loose handcuff, then glanced out the window and groaned in disgust as a woman standing in the alley between two houses efficiently wrung the neck of a rooster. Blood spurted all over her legs and the side of the building as the bird was parted from his head. Mark watched the headless bird as it flopped about in the throes of death and tried not to think of his secretary’s face as he’d tossed her over the rim of the ravine. By the time they’d passed the scene of the rooster’s death, he was on to another subject.

  “How much farther to the hacienda?” he asked.

  Solomon Tutuola glanced up in the rearview mirror, then back to the road.

  “Only a few minutes now,” he said softly.

  Mark nodded, then looked at the huge fists of his driver. He remembered how relieved he’d been when Tutuola had pulled the woman off him.

  “Say…thanks for what you did back there in San Antonio.”

  “I didn’t do it for you, señor.”

  Mark frowned. “If not me, then why?”

  “For the money, of course,” Solomon answered, and stepped on the gas.

  Now that Presley had brought it up, Solomon had to admit he was anxious to be done with this man and the task that he’d agreed to perform.

  Mark’s eyes narrowed angrily; then he shrugged it off. At least the bastard was honest. If it had been him, he might have felt the same.

  He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, allowing himself a few moments to shut his eyes. He was exhausted, but no sooner had he closed his eyes than he had an epiphany. Just because he was across the border, that didn’t mean he was safe. There was no reason to assume the woman wouldn’t continue to follow them. What puzzled him most was how she managed to keep finding him. Hell, even he hadn’t known for sure where he was going when he’d first left Dallas, yet she must have been right behind him all the way, waiting for the best time to strike.

  The gray sky continued to lighten as the morning grew older, but Mark’s view of it was somewhat distorted by the billowing dust stirred up by their car.

  Just when he thought they would never arrive, the driver began slowing down. Mark shifted slightly in the seat so he could see around Tutuola’s wide shoulders and realized they were there.

  The hacienda was huge and sprawling and sorely in need of restoration. Some of the red Spanish tiles on the roof were broken; a few others had fallen off. The windows were shuttered, but he could tell by the clutter that from time to time squatters had been using it for shelter. He saw empty soda cans, scraps of packaging from food and crushed boxes, and wrinkled his nose, hoping the inside wasn’t worse. Tumbleweeds had blown into the yard before coming to rest against a cactus. Another had come to rest at the base of a Joshua tree.

  Mark kept reminding himself that it didn’t matter what it looked like inside. All he needed was a place to hide until he had time to get a new set of identification papers. Once that was done, he would be on the first plane out of here and on his way to the Cayman Islands.

  “Once I’m inside, pull around to the back so no one can see your car,” Mark said.

  Tutuola shook his head. “I have no plans to stay beyond the time it takes you to pay me.”

  Presley frowned. “But you can’t just—”

  “You hired me to drive you, not baby-sit you,” Tutuola said. “If I stay, the price goes up.”

  Mark cursed beneath his breath. Tutuola had him in a bind, and he knew it. If he sent him on his way, he would have no way of getting around to procure papers, and there was the problem of no power and no food inside the house. This was definitely not one of the best laid plans he’d ever made. Still, he was, for the moment, out of reach of the Texas authorities, which had been the first course of business.

  “Drive around back and park the damned car!” Mark said sharply.

  Solomon shrugged. If the man pissed him off, he could always break his stupid neck and leave him for the vultures to devour. He glanced up in the rearview mirror without revealing his emotions, then back to the driveway as he began to circle the house. He would wait a bit to see which way the wind blew, and if he didn’t like the weather, he would be gone.

  Cat was about five miles behind the two men when the blip on her screen finally stopped moving. Her heart was beating rapidly, and although it was still a cool morning, there was a sheen of nervous perspiration on her skin.

  She pulled over to the side of the road and then picked up the cell phone.

  “Wilson?”

  He breathed a quick sigh of relief. He’d never been so glad to hear someone say his name.

  “I’m here.”

  “How far are you from the border?” she asked.

  “I’m there, but waiting in a line about fifteen cars long.”

  “The men have stopped. I’m about five miles from their location and may have to go in on foot to keep the element of surprise.”

  “Tell me how to get where you are,” Wilson said.

  Cat rattled off the directions.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Cat sighed. She knew what he was asking. Had she pulled herself together from the breakdown she’d so obviously had in San Antonio?

  “Yes.”

  “Will you wait for me now?”

  “Yes.”

  Wilson was so startled by her sudden acquiescence that he stuttered on the continuation of what was to have been further argument.

  “Thank God,” he said softly. “It won’t take me much longer to get through the gate. I should be there soon. If something changes, please let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Wilson started to lay the phone back down, then changed his mind.

  “Catherine?”

  “What?”

  He heard the tremble in her voice and knew that she was still rattled by the sight of her father’s killer.

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  He heard a quick intake of breath and then a brief laugh.

  The first time he’d told her that, she’d given him hell. This time she remembered and had gotten the joke.

  He laid the phone back down in the seat and within ten minutes was at the front of the line. His handgun was under the truck bed, in the wheel well above the spare tire. The guards would have to lie down and remove the spare to find the gun. He was taking a chance that wouldn’t happen.

  He rolled down his window and nodded at the first guard who approached him.

  “Morning,” he said, and then rolled his head and popped the knuckles on both hands as the guard walked up beside him, running a mirror attached to a long rod all around the truck, giving him a fairly good vie
w of the underside.

  A second guard approached. “Why are you coming into Nuevo Laredo?” he asked.

  Wilson grinned what he hoped was a fairly lustful grin.

  “I’m meeting my girlfriend. We’re gonna party a little down here. Maybe you saw her? Her hair is long and black and curls down around her back. Her eyes are so blue they put the sky to shame and her body…lord, but she’s built. Legs all the way up to here. She drives a dark blue SUV.”

  The description sent a jolt of recognition through both of the guards. They started talking to each other in Spanish, gesticulating with their hands as they measured off her shape and the size of her breasts.

  Wilson felt like punching them both in the face, but he’d started the story. It was his fault that they were playing into it.

  “Ah…sounds like you’ve already met her,” Wilson said, and pretended to frown. “You can look…but you don’t touch,” he added.

  Both guards grinned, then waved him on. One of them called out to have a good day.

  Wilson waved and grinned like a fool, but the moment he was on the Mexican side of the border, he drove through town as fast as he dared, following the directions Cat had given him earlier.

  He was topping a hill with a flurry of dust behind him when he saw her SUV parked off to the side at the bottom. The relief that went through him was like nothing he’d ever known. He thanked God and every angel that had kept her in one piece as he pulled up behind her and stopped. He was out of the truck and on his way to her when he saw the door open.

  As she got out, he saw that her jaw was set and her eyes were glittering, although her expression was blank.

  He eyed her briefly, and while the urge to hug her was strong, he knew better than to break her concentration.

  “I guess you know you’ve aged me a good ten years,” he grumbled as he got up to her.

  Cat allowed herself the luxury of giving him the once-over.

  He was wearing what appeared to be a three-day growth of dark whiskers, a pair of dusty boots and a pair of well-fitting jeans. Like her, he’d abandoned his heavy winter coat for a jacket. His hair was growing out. There were changes since she’d seen him last, but nothing that mattered. He was still wearing that gold loop earring and a “don’t piss me off” look in his eyes.

  “You need to know what we’re up against,” she said.

  “Talk to me,” Wilson said.

  “Presley is walking and talking just fine. I almost had him back in San Antonio. Got one handcuff on him before the devil pulled me free.”

  “The devil…you mean the man you believe is the one who attacked you and your father?”

  “Oh…it’s him,” Cat said. A muscle was jerking at the side of her mouth, but her voice was clear and calm. “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for him. I got into this business because of him. Ever since I saw him with Presley in San Antonio, I’ve been trying to figure out why God is playing this joke on me. I promised myself that I would not let Presley get away with what he did, just like I promised my daddy the last time I visited his grave that I would find the man who killed him and bring him to justice. But to have them somehow wind up together, with me walking on their heels, is a joke. I don’t know what to do first. Who to focus on. How to begin.”

  “We’ll take it one step at a time,” Wilson said.

  “I can’t let them get away.”

  “So…let’s go catch some bad guys,” Wilson muttered. “Just wait a sec. I need to get some stuff.”

  Cat watched as he lay down on his back, then scooted underneath his truck. When he emerged, he was carrying a gun. He got a couple of boxes of ammunition from behind the seat, then put it all in the seat of Cat’s SUV.

  “Get in,” he said. “I’ll drive. You navigate.”

  She started to argue, then wisely shut her mouth. It was past time to admit that this was one instance where she needed all the help she could get.

  They got in. Cat held the laptop as Wilson put the car in gear. Within five minutes, they were at their destination, hidden only by a small stand of mesquite and a shallow indentation in the lay of the land.

  Cat frowned. “I don’t see a car.”

  “It’s probably around back,” Wilson said.

  “Drive all the way up to the front of the house like we own the place,” Cat said.

  Wilson arched an eyebrow. “Don’t believe in sneaking up on them, huh?”

  She waved a hand toward the property. “Look at this place. It’s flat as my Sunday pancakes, and there’s nothing to hide behind except my gun.”

  Wilson grinned. “So you’re admitting your cooking leaves something to be desired?”

  “I admit to nothing, especially my cooking skills. Let’s get this over with, okay?”

  “We could call for the Mexican police,” he suggested.

  She rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He agreed with her wisdom, then curled his fingers a little tighter around the steering wheel.

  “Okay, here goes nothing,” he said. “Hang on, and if they start shooting, get down.”

  Cat nodded, then pulled out her gun as Wilson hit the gas and headed for the hacienda.

  The interior of the hacienda had been destroyed. The once-beautiful adobe walls were marked with all sorts of graffiti, and the storage areas were full of trash. Someone had even set up what appeared to have been a mobile meth lab in the room that had once been a library. There were burn marks on the floor where cooking fires had been started, and, to Mark’s dismay, what smelled like some kind of fuel oil in a barrel in the middle of the room. He kicked it and heard liquid slosh, then frowned.

  He continued through the rooms and was trying to find a place clean enough in which to sleep when he heard Tutuola yell. He ran out into the hallway just in time to see the big man disappear around a corner.

  “What’s happening?” he called out, and when he got no answer, ran toward the front of the house.

  As he entered the living room, he saw Solomon crouched behind some drapes, peering out a window.

  “What the hell are you—”

  Solomon gestured wildly for Mark to shut up, then pointed.

  Presley saw a dusty, dark blue SUV slide to a stop. It was when he saw the woman getting out from the passenger side that he started to curse.

  “It’s her! It’s that fucking woman! How in hell does she keep doing this?”

  “They’re coming in! Get down,” Solomon ordered, and pulled a 9 mm handgun from inside his jacket and aimed it toward the door.

  Before Mark could move, the front doorknob was turning. Suddenly the door was pushed inward, hitting the wall with a solid thud.

  Solomon aimed toward the opening, expecting one or both of the intruders to come running in. Instead, from the corner of his eye, he saw one of them running toward the back of the house. It distracted him enough that when the man came through the front door in a rolling dive, shooting as he went, he was forced to take evasive action.

  Standing in plain sight with no cover behind which to hide, Solomon went into a sudden crouch just as the first shot splintered the window frame beside his head. He crawled on his hands and knees behind the sofa, then rose up and emptied a clip into the room, aiming in every direction.

  Wilson was face down on the floor without cover, cursing with every breath. When it dawned on him that the man’s gun was empty, he rolled behind a pile of boxes and began to fire at the old sofa, well aware that every shot was going through and into the floor or the wall behind it. If the bastard was still there, he was dead.

  When the shots began, Presley was on the floor, crawling toward the hall on his belly. When he made it all the way out of the room without being shot, he headed for the back of the house.

  The car keys were still in the car, along with his other belongings. It didn’t bother him to leave Tutuola alone to his own defenses. After all, it wasn’t as if he had any means of protection. It was every man for himself.


  Cat was crouched next to an outer door at the back of the house when the gunfire began. At that point her heart sank. If anything happened to Wilson McKay, she would never forgive herself. Before she could react, she heard running footsteps coming toward the door and tensed.

  Just as she heard the hinges beginning to squeak, there was another round of gunfire. Then something exploded inside the house, followed by an orange ball of flame. She thought of Wilson and said a quick prayer.

  It was all the time she had as the door swung inward. Smoke billowed out. Presley emerged on the run without looking behind him.

  Cat tackled him from the back, hitting him waist high and sending him to the flagstones with a deadening jolt.

  He tried to scream, but there was no breath left in his body, and the pain in his back was so sharp, he thought he’d been cut in half. He’d landed elbows down as his chin cracked on the flagstones. Blood began oozing from the various points of contact. While he was still trying to catch his breath, someone yanked on his hands and pulled them behind his back. He heard a distinct click, and when he tried to get up, realized he’d finally been handcuffed.

  As he was rolled from his belly to his back, he had a skewed view of the smoke billowing from the house. Then he saw her.

  When he opened his mouth to beg, she stabbed a boot against his neck and pushed just hard enough for him to gag.

  “Don’t talk to me, you sorry bastard. You don’t have anything to say that I want to hear.”

  To his dismay, she dragged him up from the ground as if he weighed nothing and began hauling him around the house. When she got to the car, she opened the back hatch and pointed.

  “Get in,” she said.

  He hesitated, which was a shame, because Cat’s patience was gone. Presley never saw it coming. One minute he was upright and then he was not. She cold-cocked him with her fist and shoved him in the back of the SUV. He never knew when she grabbed a length of rope and tied his feet, then bent his knees until she had tied his bound feet to the handcuffs on his hands,

  Cat was shaking as she turned toward the house. Smoke was coming out from under the eaves of the roof as well as from the front door. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew Wilson was still inside. Sudden fear that she would lose him, too, sent her running toward the house.