Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Page 20

  She was referring to the sitting area with the picture window overlooking the lake, where they had spun their tale about Pax.

  “And Pax is going to be with him?”

  “I don’t know.” She sounded exasperated. “I don’t keep track of him every second. He’ll be in the house somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “He’s not going to interfere,” she said. “What more do you want?”

  Her voice sounded shrill and loud, like she was teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

  I smiled a little on the inside and pulled away from the lake, turning a few moments later onto the Vega driveway.

  The Maserati was parked by the front door, next to the navy-blue Suburban. In the distance, I could see the garage. All three doors were open, each space empty.

  “How much bleach do you have?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “And towels.” I paused. “For the cleanup.”

  Her face grew white.

  “You forget Mendoza’s already?” I said. “When people get shot, they bleed. It’s a forensics nightmare.”

  She looked like she was going to say something, but the words wouldn’t form, mouth opening and closing.

  “Also, what’s your plan for getting rid of the body?”

  “What the hell do you mean, what’s my plan?” She spluttered out the words. “That’s what you’re here for.”

  “Hey, I’ve only been on the job for thirty minutes.” I parked behind the Maserati. “Hadn’t really had time to line anything up.”

  Quinn muttered to herself and then turned to stare at her house, hands clenched into fists.

  A few moments passed.

  I turned off the ignition. “It’s a hell of a thing, killing your spouse.”

  She glared at me.

  “You may hate his guts,” I said, “but he’s still a part of you. You’re still gonna feel a loss.”

  “I lost him a long time ago.” She grasped the door handle but made no move to exit.

  Another few seconds passed.

  “You having second thoughts?” I asked.

  She shook her head but continued to stare at the house.

  I decided to turn up the pressure.

  “You should know something about Miguel,” I said.

  “What?” She snapped out of her funk, looked at me.

  “He has asthma. Really bad. Stress makes it worse. He needs medication.”

  She shifted in her seat, lips pressed together.

  “I was on the way to the drugstore when Frank snatched me. If he gets sick or dies—”

  She slammed her palm against the dash. “Shut the fuck up.”

  In that instant, she was as transparent as a piece of glass. Every line on her face told a different chapter from the same story—the pressure she was under, the worry, the fear, how far outside her comfort zone running a cartel had left her.

  She was like a guitar, and all I had to do was pluck the right strings to get what I wanted.

  I continued. “If he dies, then I don’t really give a damn about anything else. You can do what you want to with that gun of mine.”

  She balled her fists, face mottled red with anger. She swore, banged the dash again.

  “Fine, I’ll get the kid his medicine.”

  I didn’t react, hoping I’d made the right call. A moment passed, and she made her last mistake.

  “He’s here. The boy.” She rubbed her eyes, looking ten years older all of a sudden. “You take care of Frank, and we’ll get the kid his damn medicine.”

  - CHAPTER FORTY-ONE -

  Mice and men. Their best-laid plans.

  I realized what a colossal mistake I’d made as soon as we stepped inside.

  Pax Larson-Ibarra lay dead on the floor, shot twice in the chest.

  The air smelled like spent gunpowder. Urine darkened the crotch of his khakis, the stain spreading even as Quinn and I stood in the doorway.

  He’d been killed seconds before.

  No time to ponder why I hadn’t heard a shot.

  Noise from the rear of the house, footsteps, a body thumping into a piece of furniture.

  I pulled the Beretta from my waistband, flicked off the safety—

  Bam.

  A bullet slammed into the wall a few feet away, plaster dust raining down on us.

  I yanked Quinn to the floor.

  Another blast and a window shattered.

  Quinn huddled on her knees, shaking.

  I dragged her toward the sitting room as a third round plowed into the woodwork over our heads.

  We tumbled behind the sofa. The door to Frank’s office was across the room.

  “Is there another way out?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Through the office. Leads to the kitchen.”

  I pulled her into Frank’s room. Once there, we pressed our backs against the wall, breathing heavily.

  The office was empty, dimly lit by a lamp on the desk.

  “Where’s Miguel?” I whispered.

  “We had a deal. Frank’s still alive.”

  “That was before your husband went off the rails and killed his partner. I need to make sure Miguel is safe before anything else happens.”

  Footsteps behind us in the room we’d just left, followed by silence.

  I strained to hear, but there was no sound except the pounding of my own heart. After a moment, I looked at Quinn and pointed to the exit at the other end of the office.

  She nodded. Together we crept in that direction.

  That’s when Frank appeared, stepping out of the shadows in front of us.

  I wondered how he had managed to move from the room behind us to the other side of the house so quickly and silently.

  He held the tiny semiauto in one hand, the other hand pressed against a wound in his side, blood seeping from between his fingers.

  He spoke to Quinn. “Did you see him? He’s in the house somewhere.”

  New info. There was someone else on the premises, not just Pax and Frank.

  She didn’t respond.

  I glanced behind me, saw nothing. I prioritized the immediate threat, focusing all my attention on Frank.

  He seemed to notice me for the first time. “What’s he doing here?”

  Quinn looked at me, her eyes wide, a weasel caught in the headlights.

  I aimed the Beretta at Frank. “Put your gun down.”

  He wiped his mouth with his free hand, blood smearing across his chin. The weapon remained in his grasp.

  Quinn finally spoke, her words directed at me. “Kill him.”

  Frank’s mouth dropped open. He lowered the gun slightly, taken aback. “That’s what this is about?”

  “Do it,” she said. “Shoot him.”

  “Drop your weapon.” I eased closer.

  “You bitch.” He stared at his wife. “You money-grubbing tramp.”

  “Shoot him.” Quinn jabbed a finger at the man she’d once promised to love and honor.

  I didn’t fire. My only goal at the moment was to find Miguel. Plus, I wasn’t planning on killing anybody today other than her.

  I took another step toward Frank, hoping to get close enough to disarm him. “Let’s all be calm. Where’s the bo—”

  Thppt.

  A rush of air over my shoulder and a spray of blood from Frank Vega’s head. The top of his skull blew apart.

  I whirled around, aiming the Beretta at—

  Javier.

  Standing in the doorway, a pistol in one hand. A pistol equipped with a silencer.

  He said, “Put the gun down, amigo.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Something I should have done a long time ago.”

  “Where did you get that?” I stared at the silencer.

  “I just wanted to make my babies stop crying,” he said. “I couldn’t take it any longer.”

  Everything came back to me in a rush. El Corazón Roto, just after Sandoval had been killed, Javier knocking ba
ck Jack Daniel’s even though it was barely noon. Javier starting to drink heavily after the restaurant guy was killed. Javier drunker than I’ve ever seen him after the Pecky Ruibal massacre.

  Every time there was a killing, he got his whiskey on.

  “You’re the shooter?” I said.

  Javier pointed to Frank Vega’s corpse. “He told me that the cartel was coming to Dallas, the same people who killed my family.”

  “And he offered you a chance for vengeance,” I said, finally understanding.

  Javier nodded. “Take down the drug smugglers. He never said he was part of them.”

  Frank Vega may not have been street-smart, but he understood human nature.

  Choosing a mournful father as his tool to take over the cartel’s operation was a brilliant tactical move. Javier had a perfect motive, and he lived in a constant state of anger. He was like a cocked gun. He just needed pointing in the right direction.

  “He lied to everybody,” Quinn said.

  I turned away from Javier.

  Quinn had picked up her husband’s pistol. “Put your weapons down, both of you.”

  I didn’t move.

  Javier stared at her. “What’s going on?”

  “Quinn fancies herself the brains of the operation,” I said. “The narco godmother.”

  “What?” He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  She sneered at us. “Is it so hard to believe? A woman in charge of things.”

  “You got what you wanted,” I said. “Your husband’s dead. Now give me Miguel.”

  “She has the boy?” Javier lowered his gun, face aghast.

  Quinn seized the opportunity. She fired, the bullet striking Javier in the shoulder.

  He staggered backward, the gun staying in his grasp.

  Quinn didn’t seem to notice that he still had his weapon. She aimed at me. “You’re next if you don’t drop it.”

  “I want Miguel.” I held on to the Beretta, the muzzle pointed to the floor.

  She was about six feet away. I was an easy target, even for an untrained shooter. But so was she.

  Her eyes narrowed as a vein twitched in her forehead.

  From the front of the house came the sound of footsteps and voices in Spanish. The cavalry, such as it was, had arrived. Reinforcements, the people Frank had referenced in his phone call. Maybe members of the same gang as the two thugs at Rudy’s earlier.

  Either way, their arrival wasn’t a good development for anybody.

  Their connection had been through Pax, who lay dead on the floor of the entryway.

  Quinn looked like she was going to call out to them.

  I held my finger to my lips, hoping she’d understand that with Pax dead, whoever those gangbangers were, they would see themselves as free agents.

  She took a step back, clearly terrified.

  I stuck the Beretta in my waistband, moved closer to her, my hands up.

  She didn’t try to stop me.

  When we were only a few inches apart, I whispered in her ear: “We need to get out of here. They’re not your allies.”

  She was shaking, teeth chattering.

  “Do you have more guns?” I asked. “Anything to help defend us.”

  She nodded. “The room above the garage. Locked in a safe.”

  I took a stab in the dark. “That’s where the boy is, right?”

  She hesitated. Then she nodded.

  I tried to keep my face blank, to hide the elation I felt. I pointed to the door leading to the kitchen. “We’ll go out the back.”

  When she looked that way, I twisted the gun from her hand while sliding my free arm around her neck, jamming her throat into the crook of my elbow.

  She reacted as I suspected, not like someone trained for a street fight. She didn’t jab a thumb in my eye or reach for my groin. Instead, she grabbed at my arm, trying to free herself.

  With her gun still in my hand, I pressed the back of her head into my arm and squeezed. After a few moments, she stopped struggling.

  Shouting in Spanish from the front of the house. Not much time left.

  Javier stared at me from across the room, eyes wide.

  I kept the pressure applied, sweat trickling down the small of my back.

  A few seconds later, her body went slack.

  Javier watched me ease her to the floor next to the corpse of her husband.

  “Let’s go.” I pointed to the door leading to the kitchen.

  He shook his head. “Get the boy. I’ll slow them down.”

  - CHAPTER FORTY-TWO -

  I dashed from Frank Vega’s office and into the kitchen.

  The room was all granite and stainless steel, copper pots hanging over a restaurant-grade stove.

  French doors opened onto a patio, the garage visible about fifty feet away.

  From the front of the house, people yelling.

  I flung open the back door and headed toward the garage.

  Gunfire behind me, Javier trying to slow them down.

  The stairway to the second floor was on the outside of the structure. Exposed, vulnerable to whoever might exit the house and look toward the rear of the property.

  That didn’t matter.

  I sprinted up the steps.

  The door at the top was flimsy, glass paneled, secured by a single lock, not even a dead bolt.

  Amateur hour here at Cartel HQ. Frank and Quinn Vega had been stooges all along, a means to an end. Run interference on controlling Texas.

  Inside, I could see Miguel across the room, hands bound behind his back, a gag in his mouth. I reared back a leg, kicked right above the lock.

  The door sprang open.

  I ran inside, dropped Quinn’s gun on the floor, pulled off the gag. “Are you OK?”

  He nodded.

  The room was one big open area, a kitchenette along the far wall by an open door leading to a bathroom.

  I flung open drawers until I found a paring knife. Then I cut the plastic ties around his wrists and ankles. He threw his arms around me and began to cry. I hugged him for a moment, trying to keep my emotions under control. Then I pushed him away. We needed to leave the Vega property as soon as possible.

  Quinn’s Mercedes was by the front. I still had the key, but I didn’t want to risk getting that close to the house.

  “We have to get out of here,” I said. “Pronto.”

  Miguel’s face was pale, his breathing shallow and rapid.

  “We’ll find a back way out.” I stood. “We just have to be quick going down the steps.”

  He nodded, followed me to the door.

  The hood was about halfway up the stairs. He had teardrop tattoos under both eyes and a pistol in his hand.

  I pulled the Beretta from my waistband. I aimed at the same time as he began to raise his weapon. He was below me, so his gun had farther to travel.

  I fired, the bullet striking him in the lower abdomen.

  He didn’t fall, however, grasping the railing with one hand, the other slowly bringing the gun up.

  I fired twice more, both rounds hitting him in the chest.

  He tumbled down the steps, leaving a trail of blood as he went.

  At the base of the stairs, I jumped over his body, motioning for Miguel to do the same.

  At the front of the house, I could see a Chevy Impala with low-profile tires and chrome wheels parked behind Quinn’s Mercedes.

  Figure there had been four people in the Chevy, and one was now dead.

  What about the other three?

  There was no movement from the house.

  Miguel tugged on my arm. “Está Javier aquí?”

  I didn’t reply. Miguel looked at the house, his eyes wide.

  “Dónde está Javier?” he said.

  I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “No, no, no.” He shook his head.

  “Él no está aquí,” I said. “Not any longer, anyway.”

  The boy stared at me, tears in his eyes.

  I pointed to
the gate by the garage, which led to the street. “Vámonos.”

  We walked north on Fisher Road.

  Javier’s pickup was parked in an alley on the other side, out of view of the front entrance to the Vega property. Miguel craned his neck to keep the truck in sight as we passed it.

  We’d made it about sixty yards when the first police car blew by, lights and sirens blaring.

  That much gunfire in a quiet, upscale neighborhood meant the area was going to be crawling with police.

  I had an arm on Miguel’s shoulder, trying to project an image of normalcy, just two fellows out for an afternoon stroll.

  Once the squad car passed us, I pulled the Beretta from my waistband and ejected the magazine, thumbing bullets into the drainage ditch on the side of the road as we walked. When the mag was empty, I wiped it down with my T-shirt and tossed it across the street into a thicket of honeysuckle.

  Miguel looked up at me. “A dónde vamos?”

  “I don’t know where we’re going.” I removed the slide from the frame. “We’ll figure it out as we go. Está bien?”

  He nodded.

  I wiped down both sections of the gun, dropping the slide into a puddle of water on our side of the street, tossing the frame into a culvert on the other.

  Two more squad cars sped by.

  “I’m sorry we came back to Dallas,” I said.

  He didn’t reply, and we kept walking.

  - CHAPTER FORTY-THREE -

  We continued on for about thirty minutes, until we got to Mockingbird Lane, the first major thoroughfare north of the Vega residence.

  Neither of us spoke.

  Looking back, I suppose I was in a state of shock. Javier had been the killer all along, manipulated by Frank Vega. And I had missed it.

  I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t encountered him all those months ago, preparing to end his own life. Would he have killed himself, and none of this would have occurred? Would his death have derailed the plans of Frank and Quinn Vega?

  Shoulda, coulda, woulda. The seductive call of hindsight.

  I pushed those thoughts from my mind. The past was the past. Nothing ever remained for any of us but the future, for good or bad.

  One thing was certain: if I’d never met Javier, I wouldn’t have met Miguel. For this I was grateful.

  I still had my wallet, so I bought a burner at CVS and called Aloysius Throckmorton. After talking to him, I strolled over to the 7-Eleven and purchased a one-gallon plastic gas can and package of Styrofoam cups. Outside, I filled the gas can with diesel fuel.