Two others came at her, and Malcolm tripped one of them, shouting something. He ran toward the altar, to join forces with her. Juan flipped down his gun and started shooting. A line of bullets chipped into the floor between them, narrowly missing the downed man, who scrambled out of the line of fire. Juan’s gun aimed higher. Lexi screamed and dropped down, covering her head as Malcolm’s run stopped short. Bits of wood, metal and stone peppered her arms, then Malcolm caught her around the waist. They rolled into the nave as the chandelier smashed onto the altar she had just occupied. Glass shards scattered as the light went out.
He hugged her against him, then the embrace broke. Other hands hauled her up, shoving her against the altar. She turned her head sharply, trying to avoid the metal candle spikes thrusting from the fallen wheel. The gag yanked against her mouth, the man ground himself against her from behind as she struggled. Terror swept her mind. He grabbed her arms, wrenching them over her head and binding her wrists. Shouldn’t have fought back. They didn’t treat good girls this way, did they? F-that — she should’ve fought harder.
Pulling back from her, the man kept hold of her bound wrists and hauled her up, stumbling after him. Dimly beyond the altar, she saw Malcolm, his face and hands bloodied, being man-handled by another assailant. Malcolm’s eyes met her with silent defiance, the gleam of daring white.
Her hands hooked over a metal bracket in the wall, her toes barely on the ground and shoulders straining. Crimson and gold light pierced the boards concealing a stained-glass window and highlighted Juan’s face as he raised his weapon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
Hola.” Grant spread his hands. “I spoke with Dante this morning. I’m with los Zetas.” He turned slowly half way, his gun aimed at the ground. “Checking out your arrangements. Ramon told me the set-up. Who are you?” He tipped his chin, to glance back at his accuser.
Beyond the wall, a sudden spate of gunshots provided a momentary distraction — and a jolt of fear. No way Gooney had gotten here so fast. Shit. He pivoted hard, bringing up the crowbar. The hooked end cracked ribs and spun his attacker against the wall, tearing free again with a gasp and a spatter of blood. Before the man knew what was happening. Grant brought the crowbar down on his skull with a sickening thud. In a smear of bodily fluids, the man slumped sideways down the wall. Twelve.
Who was shooting and why, and were the targets still alive?
Double-time. Grant raced along the wall, counting windows. Most were vacant, no frames much less shutters or bars. Up ahead. Three, two, one. Not just a target, but maybe an ally.
Shutters on the outside, rotten wood loosely held by old nails. God bless the jungle. Grant worked the crowbar under one edge, and pulled with the minimum force. He caught the shutter and eased it back. Inside, somebody smothered a breath. Grant leaned in close, left shoulder to the wall, gun held easy in his right hand.
“I’m here to help,” he whispered in Spanish.
A woman’s face appeared at the barred window, her eyes wide with sudden hope. “You’re with the kids?” she asked in soft English.
Quick nod. “Make me some noise.”
She flashed a smile, framed by gray-streaked hair, then she stepped away, and started shouting, calling her abductors every terrible name Grant had ever learned in Spanish, plus some he’d never heard before, and even more in a language he didn’t know. She demanded freedom, access to her phone, a chance to talk to her employees — and Grant applied his crowbar to the inserted frame of iron rods.
The gunmen shouted back and beat their hands against the door.
Grant worked his feet up the wall, then grabbed a pair of corbels supporting the roof and pushed his feet hard against the crowbar, grinding the framework free of the ancient wall. Before the heavy frame could drop, he hooked one foot into it, then grabbed it and let himself drop to the ground, settling the frame aside.
The woman cried out as if they scared her, and called, “Don’t shoot, I’m sorry.” She retreated from the door, then turned and put her hands to the window frame.
Grant offered his hand. “Sorry about the blood.”
She cut him a glance. “I’ve seen worse.” She gripped his arm and he helped her clamber out. “Eleiua,” she said, tapping her chest.
Should’ve known. “Get to the back, where the vehicles are, and find the key to the big truck. We might need a fast escape.”
“I can help. I’m not afraid to shoot a man.”
Handy. He pulled the second pistol from his ankle holster and offered it to her butt first. A little better than the pea shooter. Shots had been fired, not by him, but enough to confuse the issue for everyone but the original shooter.
“Get one of them inside the room. I’m going up.” Using the empty window, Grant bellied up onto the roof — one of the few places he could trust the aged structure, or at least, trust the gang to want to keep their prisoners secure within it. One for her, three for him.
Eleiua closed the shutters as much as she could. “Pablo? Pablo, I hurt my hand, can you help me, please?” She put on a vulnerable tone, calling through the window.
“What an old lady,” one of the guards grumbled. “I don’t know what Hernan saw in her.”
“Eh, she’s still got a thing or two.”
Grant crept up the slope of the roof, rifle across his back, and heard the scrape of a bar being lifted.
“Don’t get any ideas in there!” said the man left behind as the door opened just enough. Raul.
Near the gate, the two men looked over, then one of them frowned and stepped toward the gate. Grant’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He lined up the first shot: the guy looking out. The rifle punched a hole and sent him sprawling on his face out the gate. Eleven. His companion startled and turned that way. Grant ratcheted the next round, and there were ten.
From within the cell, a protest, a shot and a cry, quickly silenced by another shot. Nine. Grant pushed forward on his elbows and took the partner as he looked up. Eight.
“Gooney, go!” he shouted, rising up to steady his rifle, ready. Gooney ran through the gate, weapon in hand. Blood streaked from his left shoulder, a jagged stain across his shirt, but he didn’t slow, didn’t signal for help.
The shadows shifted just past the church. Grant absorbed the recoil and the soft, familiar thunder. Seven. Gooney slammed a kick into the church door and dropped low as gunfire gave answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
After hooking Lexi up, the man shouted at her, his face so distorted she read nothing but his fury. She turned away, hunching, and the bracket shifted against the wall. The man produced a knife, and Juan said something, but not an admonition, something gentle and all the more awful because of it. He was holding a phone, not his weapon at all, and he snapped a photo of her hanging there, then turned away, tapping at the device.
Across the nave, Malcolm executed a twist and a shove against the man who held him, the man who kept them apart. Two long strides, forcing her assailant to look at him, unready for assault from behind. Malcolm landed a punch that knocked her assailant’s knife aside. Malcolm sprang into a kick, but the man pivoted and snatched Malcolm’s ankle wrenching him from the sky.
His eyes flared wide, then he slammed hard to the ground. The shudder of his fall resounded through the floor. The man kicked him aside and he rolled, his head bouncing once, his face hidden. Malcolm, no! The man turned back to her, sneering.
Wrenching her bound hands against the bracket, Lexi pulled it free, staggering against the man as she fell. Letting the momentum carry her, she swiped the knife from the ground with both hands. Malcolm might have died — no — fallen, but he had left her this.
Dropping her center of gravity, Lexi lashed out, drawing blood before her assailant could snatch back his arm. He glared, his teeth bared as he flicked the blood away. He circled and she dodged, for a moment cast back in time.
Come on, Lexi, I want that scribble. Her father circled, hands
speaking, then spread, encouraging her to attack him, a red marker in hand. He had one patch of red on the side of his hand — the first time she’d gotten him for real. Nine-year-old Lexi ducked under his lunge and aimed upward, the point of her marker glancing off his thigh, leaving a mark. She grinned and he laughed. Nice! Your mom won’t be too happy about that. Again. Here’s your target. He indicated his chest, making a circle like a target over his heart.
A game to play with an agile child, a way to teach a daughter how to defend herself. Or, as her mother would claim, more proof that he was crazy-dangerous. Her body remembered the game, the dodge, the thrust, the turn, the pivot. Gratitude flooded her. If he’d given her nothing else, at least she had this. But they’d never sparred with her hands bound.
She flung out an elbow, forcing the man into an awkward turn. Her skill turned her opponent cautious, and furious.
As she moved, the memory of her father overlaid her enemy, urging her onward, urging her to fight. Had he ever imagined she’d be fighting for her life and that of someone she loved? He’d been a soldier: he fought every day for those things. For her. Except at the end when he just walked away and never looked back.
With a surge of anger, Lexi spun out of her attacker’s reach, stumbling a little, then ramming the blade toward his back — Nice, Lexi! Right between the ribs! Her father collapsing under her childish weight, Lexi holding her marker skyward in victory, her mother storming in, demanding to know what they were doing, and playtime in an instant turned sour, her father’s pride at her achievement turned to shame.
But this attacker spun with her and grabbed her arms, shoving her wrists and slamming her against the wall. Pain streaked through her shoulders. She brought a knee up into his crotch. He turned his hips and took the blow on his thigh, slamming her again, then grinding her hands into the stone. Her knuckles burned, her voice being taken from her all over again.
Lexi stomped his instep.
Pinning her hands, he reached up and yanked free the knife, then spun it in his grip to lay the edge at her throat. Behind him, she saw another soldier sling his huge gun across his back. He dragged at Malcolm’s limp form, rolling him over. Lexi’s wail moved through her skull.
Juan and the other man looked away, distracted from the tableau of violence.
Her attacker spewed rage into her face, the heat of his words stinging her. His shouting fury rendered him completely unintelligible in any language.
His head jerked sideways, blood blossoming from his ear. His eyes rolled back and blood foamed from his lips. His hands, suddenly weak, released her, sliding away as he collapsed to the ground at her feet, twitching.
The man accosting Malcolm flinched and looked up. He’d barely released his victim, his hand on the way to his gun, caught as if in slow-mo. He never made it. He flopped backward, limbs flailing and blood streaming from his face. What was left of it.
Lexi staggered, turning away as she fought the need to vomit.
Juan already lay on the floor, twitching as blood pooled beneath him. The last man knelt nearby, utterly still.
At the church door, her father stood, larger than life as he had always been, feet braced, body turned those sharp, familiar green eyes aligned with the barrel of a handgun. She hadn’t seen him in years, but she would never mistake him. He spoke distinctly in a language that brooked no misunderstanding, his obvious skill with his weapon underscoring his words. She couldn’t tell exactly what he said, but she could place the threat in his mouth from every thriller she’d ever read: “You touch my daughter or her friend, and you die.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
* * *
Grant offered a completely superfluous Spanish translation as he moved past Gooney’s stance. Light from the broken door flooded the nave. The one man still alive lay on his face, hands on his head and weapons discarded. Gooney stalked closer and ordered, “Stay down, stay quiet.” The man’s eyes were squeezed shut, his whole body tensing in expectation of the shot.
Securing the man’s hands and feet with more zip ties, Grant confiscated the guns with efficient movements, chucking them toward a disused chapel, then turned back for the hostages. For a moment, Lexi remained as she was, staring back at her father, then she turned aside, peeling the gag from her mouth. She bent over and vomited.
Grant cut past her, giving her a moment to recover, and dropped to a knee next to Malcolm, finding his pulse: jumpy, but present. Blood at his forehead, eyes blinking and unfocused. “Ray,” the kid murmured, and Grant smiled.
“We need to get out of here — can you move?”
“Where’s Lexi?” His voice slurred with pain, but she was still the first thing on his mind. Conscious and aware was a great start.
“On it.” Grant turned. Near the wall, Lexi straightened, leaning heavily, glancing up from under her lashes in Gooney’s direction, then away. She spotted him — no, Malcolm — and started toward them, but stumbling and disoriented. Blood spattered her face and shoulder from the direction of Gooney’s shot. Nick was the master of distance and accuracy, but for speed, Gooney was king.
“I got one on my way here. How many left?” Gooney called.
“Two. Unless they called for back-up.” Grant closed the distance to Lexi, touching her arm. Even that made her flinch, staring at him at first in terror, then relief. He found the discarded knife and cut free her hands, then the gag that hung at her throat. “Lexi. We need to go.”
She shook her head, blond hair tossing, smearing the blood. She rubbed it with the back of her hand, replacing the dead man’s blood with some of her own.
“Come on.” He supported her elbow lightly, guiding her toward Malcolm, keeping his body between her and the second corpse with its broken face.
At Malcolm’s side, she smoothed back his hair, and he managed a slight smile, his eyes sliding shut, sliding too easily between consciousness and not. She signed something, pointing to Malcolm.
Gooney said, “She wants to know if he’s alright.”
“He will be. I’m worried about those missing soldiers.” Grant rose to a crouch, but she caught him with one hand.
Her gaze shifted again toward Gooney. Caught between wonder and — what? She started to sign, caught Gooney looking, and her hands parted. She reached for Malcolm instead, maybe looking for the love she could hold onto.
“He never meant to leave you, Lexi. And he never stopped loving you. Your mother hired me, but he’s the reason I came.” Her glance dropped to Malcolm’s hands as he gave a shaky series of signs, maybe interpreting Grant’s words. Either way, releasing him to get back on point. Check his rifle and his sidearm. Move toward the busted door, gun low and ready. No sign of movement.
“Gooney, can you manage the victims?”
“Got it. Malcolm — is that right? Give me your — okay, okay.”
Lexi spoke in sharp, graceful movements, taking Malcolm’s arm over her shoulder. Grant beckoned them forward. Gooney pivoted swiftly to a new role, stowing his pistol and confiscating a dropped rifle. The strap crossed his wounded shoulder, and his teeth clenched. How bad was it? Bad enough. “Where’s Pam?”
“In town, in a mess. Driver ditched her at the sound of gunfire, chucked her bags by the side of the road.” He hustled up behind, forming a tight group with the others. “Dollars to donut, she’s still standing there, blaming me.” His face looked steely. Cutting across the door, taking a shoulder on the other side, he glanced toward his daughter and away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her — and couldn’t bear not to.
“I’ll take point,” Grant said, but Gooney was already shaking him off.
“Negative. I go first. I’m already hit. If this is an ambush, I draw the fire — you’re better placed to achieve the objective.” Meaning Gooney would die, and believed that Grant would get his daughter out safe. That trust was a burden Grant could handle, and a gift he had never expected.
He let the rifle hang for a moment forming a rapid series of signs for Lexi’s benef
it. His hand hesitated, then formed one every grade schooler knew: I love you.
Lexi looked away, and Gooney absorbed it like a blow. An engine burst to life outside, the rumble echoing as it surged toward the gates. The horn blared and the truck lurched into view out the door, with Eleiua in the driver’s seat. “Get in!” she shouted.
Grant aimed a gesture of his own. “Go, go, go!” Two in front, three across the second seat. He needed shotgun, for exactly the reason the seat had that name. “Gooney — we need to get Pam, and I need a tail gunner. You okay in the back?” He added a little emphasis that made it not so much a question as a requirement.
His glance slipped away from his daughter and her boyfriend as they raced across and slipped into the back seat of the extended cab. Green eyes narrowed, but Gooney nodded, and Grant sprinted with him around the back, already reaching to drop the tailgate — no way Gooney could vault it with that arm.
From the bed of the vehicle, Ramon blinked over his gag, his eyes gleaming white. The kid hunched a little further away, maybe looking for cover. “Jesus, Casey — you getting soft or what? That’s one of the guys that kidnapped my daughter.”
“Yep. Maybe later we’ll play good cop/bad cop. Which one do you want to be?”
“Not funny.” He swung himself up to the inside and pulled the tailgate close after him. Blood streaked down his shoulder and he moved stiffly as he lay the rifle across his lap.
“How bad is it? Your shoulder?”
“Hurts but it works. Go.” He tipped his head. Taking a position in the back, rifle ready, Gooney dodged Grant’s eye.
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