Chapter Forty-Eight

Woody took the chopper in low and silent, a mile from the cabin. High noon, straight up.

“Stay here,” Chance ordered Pagan, but didn’t wait for an answer as he pushed out of the chopper and dropped to ground level. He sunk into the powdery depths to mid-thigh, then crunched through the crusted older snow until he hit rock bottom. By then he was hip deep and floundering. He’d struck a fallen log beneath the white and nearly fell. It took a moment to catch his balance. Shit. All this snow was a nightmare.

Wind from the rotors whipped it into a whirlwind of ice crystals that buffeted his face and made sight impossible, but Chance scrambled onward, damned near swimming through the white stuff. His thighs and glutes suffered a firestorm of agony fighting the weight of it. He might as well have been running in slow motion, but run he did. Out of breath and tasting copper at the back of his throat, he’d left all but his two pistols and a half-dozen extra mags behind. Whatever happened next would be short and lethal.

Pagan had offered alternatives on the ride home. “We could be wrong,” he’d said.

“She probably stayed indoors,” he’d said.

“I doubt she even knows anyone’s outside laying for her,” he’d said.

All plausible, but all wrong. Once again, a woman’s life hung in the balance because of Chance’s poor choices. Recrimination walked with him every floundering step of the way until at last he stood at the edge of the graveyard, where York and twenty-one other bodies lay. McQueen would soon send in a team to remove them. Kruze and McQueen had wrapped them, so no animals could get at them, but for now they waited in silent, gruesome slumber.

The forest was silent around him, when Gallo came out of nowhere, knocking Chance to his back. Pissed that the dog had left Suede, he grabbed Gallo by the scruff of his neck and shook the worthless mutt. Gallo snapped, his canines bared. Pushing off Chance like a kid off a trampoline, he bounded back the way he’d come. Ten steps away, he whirled on Chance, his snout lifted and growling his peculiar dog-speak. By hell, he wants me to follow.

“You know where she is, don’t you?” Chance asked as he climbed to his feet.

That earned him another snarl and a shake of the dog’s head. Bared canines again. Gallo stood there in the deep snow, poised to run and his ears pitched forward like radar dishes.

“Find Suede,” Chance ordered, though it was clear he wasn’t in charge.

Whirling, Gallo bounded through the drifts like a damned flying reindeer, while Chance barely managed to keep up.

“N-noooo,” Suede’s voice drifted from far beyond the graveyard. “I told you it’s just a little farther. He’s buried close by, but with all the snow, I got lost and…”

“Gallo. Sit. Stay,” Chance whispered to his faithful dog. Gallo dropped his butt to the snow where he stood yards ahead, his focus one hundred percent beyond the stand of snow-laden fir trees between him and Suede.

A husky male voice grumbled, but when Suede cried out, “Not that!” Chance was done waiting. His pistols sprang to his hands. The powder made his steps silent. His anger made his intentions certain.

Gallo sunk to his belly, stalking their prey alongside his master like a skilled teammate instead of an untrained mutt. They came within ten feet of the killer without Zapata knowing they were there. The bastard had Suede on her knees facing away from him, her long hair twisted around his gloved hand. With his elbow cocked and knife raised like it was, he meant to cut her throat.

Chance didn’t think twice, but before his trigger finger went live, another man stepped into view just beyond Zapata to his right. A Spanish male with darkly tanned skin and sharp black eyes, dressed in black jeans and jacket. A tactical jacket.

“Stop!” he bellowed, his weapon also trained on Zapata.

Zapata jerked Suede off her knees, leaning her back on his thigh. “You pig! You lying pig! I knew you were dirty!”

“He’s mine!” a distinctly feminine voice shrieked at Chance’s left. “Drop it, Chief.”

What the holy fuck just happened? The forest had turned into a damned sniper convention. Chance dropped nothing.

Zapata crouched low in the snow, growling like an animal while Suede whimpered, “Chance?” She still couldn’t see him.

“I’m here,” he confirmed, though he was still a couple yards away, and retrieving her had just gotten incredibly complicated.

“Back off, Hex,” Juarez demanded even though he kept his pistol trained on Zapata, “or you’ll die with him.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” she taunted, but neither she nor Juarez lowered their weapons. Juarez still had his sights on Zapata, and interestingly, Hex did, too. Chance also had a clear shot at the back of Zapata’s head. He edged up closer behind the killer, but didn’t get far before Juarez barked, “Don’t do it, Chief.”

Son-of-a-bitch, does everyone know I’m a retired naval officer?

“Go to hell,” Chance growled, finally close enough. He pressed the barrels of both weapons into the back of Zapata’s skull. “Let her go or die where you stand.”

“Chance,” Suede whimpered. “I lost Gallo. I’m s-sorry.”

“No, he’s…” Shit. Where’d that damned dog take off to now? “Don’t worry, Suede. Hang on.” He’ll be back, and then I’ll kick his ass, the coward.

Zapata had the balls to jerk Suede’s head up higher, her neck fully exposed and his knife under her chin. “She’s mine, Sinclair. I smell her blood. There’s nothing you can do to save her.”

“That’s nothing compared to what you’re going to smell if you don’t let her go,” Chance hissed, grinding his cold steel into Zapata’s head.

“You don’t want to do this, Zapata,” Juarez said. “He’s got you. Be reasonable. Let her go.”

“Don’t kill Domingo,” Hex spat. “He’s mine, I’m telling you. He’s mine!”

“What the hell do you want?” Chance asked her.

Juarez cast a terse look at Chance. “There’s a bounty on your head, my friend. Dead or alive. You’re a legend. That is all she wants. The thirty silver coins.”

Counting on Juarez to be the friend Kruze said he was, Chance leveled one pistol at Hex, still keeping contact with Zapata’s skull. “Two can die here as easy as one,” he promised her.

“But no one has to die,” Juarez corrected, his weapon still trained on Zapata.

Chance shot him an appraising glare. Bronze-skinned with dark hair cut short and tight, built like a linebacker, Juarez was not the typical hit man. Square from the ground up, yes, but he made intelligent sense in one of the worst situations Chance had ever been in. No one had to die. But they sure as hell would if they came between Suede and him.

Chance prodded Zapata one last time. “You heard the man. Drop it and live. But if you so much as flex a muscle or breathe hard, I’ll blow you to hell.”

The bastard huffed frosty white vapor in defiance with Suede’s hair still curled in his fist and his knife at her throat. “Then trade York for this lying bitch,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Where is he? You know, don’t you?”

“The last time I saw your boss, he was up on my mountain waiting for a bus,” Chance lied. “Why? You lose him?”

“Nobody came for him? He left him there?” Zapata asked.

Chance cocked his head. “Who left him there?”

“El Jefe! The lying son-of-a-bitch!”

Chance didn’t want to blow Zapata’s head off with him standing over Suede like he was, but if he kept jerking her around like he was, there’d soon be no choice. He gave the bastard one last opportunity. “Who the hell’s El Jefe?”

Zapata’s neck muscles turned to rods of steel, his jaw clenched so tight Chance heard something pop. His knuckles turned white. The man was ready to blow. When he still said nothing, Chance bumped that pistol into Zapata’s hard head until he was staring at his boots. “Get up, Suede. Now. Nice and easy. Zapata’s going to let you go now, aren’t you?”

“Drop the blade, Domingo,” she bit out, “and let me go.”

She’d just called him by his first name. Unbelievable. “You know this guy?” Chance had to ask. This standoff was Laurel and Hardy’s Who’s on First all over again, only without the laugh track.

Suede’s mean girl came out to play. Her fists balled and her chin stuck out. “Domingo Zapata was Lionel York’s Deputy Dog. Where York went, bodies tended to disappear.”

“Why are you just telling me this?”

“Because Zapata’s been gone a while, and I thought maybe we got lucky and someone killed him.”

“I will kill him for this,” Zapata spat, his knife still at her throat.

“Who the fuck’s El Jefe?” Chance had to know.

Everything happened at once. Suede leaned into the knife at her throat, then jerked her head back. Zapata’s too-close nose split wide open. From out of nowhere, a vicious gray wolf landed snarling on the man’s shoulders.

Gallo?

“Diablo!” he screamed, his arms curled over his head. But Gallo hung on, slashing and snarling. Anything he could reach, fingers, ears, scalp, the vicious dog snapped, ripped, and tore. Down they went, Gallo growling like a demon, all fangs and claws; Zapata grunting and kicking. Screeching in Spanish.

Suede dropped to her belly. Vicki Hex stepped in close and took careful aim at the whirling mass of pissed-off dog and bloodied man.

Chance didn’t think twice. His wrist flicked as his pistol shot the pink SIG from Miss Hex’s hand.

With a shriek, she dropped to her knees in the blood sprayed snow, cradling her bleeding hand. “Stop this madness! He’s killing him!”

Juarez sent Chance a chin nod, not exactly what Chance expected from a cold-blooded killer, but okay. Juarez’s weapon still aimed at the whirling mass of Gallo and Zapata, not Suede and not Chance. Trusting his instincts, Chance roared over the din of a groaning man and a fierce, unrelenting German Shepherd. “Gallo! Off!”

When Gallo shook Zapata’s hand like he meant to tear it off, Chance bellowed again. “Off!”

Still as menacing as a damned fine guard dog, Gallo backed away from Zapata. His head remained low, his fangs bared.

“Drop it, JJ!” a man ordered. Damned if Kruze hadn’t just stepped out of the trees, huffing and puffing, his rifle trained on Juarez before he jerked the goggles off his head and glared at Chance. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Chance nodded at Suede. “Rescuing my woman. What are you doing here?”

Kruze’s killer-gaze shifted from Suede to Juarez, from Juarez to Hex and onto Zapata. Then back to Suede. “Same thing. I came here to save her from this asshole. You heard from Pagan lately?”

Chance could’ve sworn a hint of a smile tweaked the corners of Juarez’s thin lips. “He’s safe. I honestly don’t know what just happened here, or who’s who. Let’s bag ’em and tag ’em, until we’re inside and can sort this mess out.”

Kruze relieved Juarez of his weapons and knocked him to his knees. Oddly, the man didn’t resist, not even when Kruze pushed his face into the snow and cuffed his hands behind his back. “Stay the fuck down, you two-faced traitor,” Kruze hissed, his knee between Juarez’s shoulder blades. Glaring at Chance, he ordered, “He moves, you shoot him.”

Chance nodded from where he knelt zip-tying Zapata’s bleeding wrists behind his back. It wasn’t often Kruze pulled rank on him. Almost made him smile.

But damn, Gallo had gone crazy on Zapata. He was torn up pretty bad. Chance pulled the now subdued killer to his knees, then let him get his feet under him. Once the man was able to stand, he added a leather collar to Zapata’s neck, then fastened a chain from the back of the collar to the cuffs. A hog-tied prisoner made for a controllable prisoner.

Interestingly, Miss Vicki Hex hadn’t received the same face-in-the-snow treatment Juarez did. Instead, Kruze had her sitting on her butt in a snowdrift while he wrapped her bloodied hand in bandages from his blowout kit. What the hell?

“You about done playing doctor?” Chance asked sarcastically.

“For now.” Kruze didn’t spare a glance. “Are you able to walk, ma’am?” he asked Hex.

Damned if her cheeks didn’t glow when she nodded and said, “Yes. I think so. Thank you.”

“Because of our radio silence” —Chance wouldn’t let on that he hadn’t been able to contact his nitwit brother or that Kruze didn’t play by the rules— “you may not know that woman you’re treating shot your baby brother today.”

At last Kruze pulled his gaze from the Mafia’s best girl. “She did? Is Pagan okay?”

“I only winged him,” she murmured, her chin tilted up, her dark eyes on Kruze. Charming him like the snake she was.

When Kruze looked down into Hex’s upturned face like a lovesick hound dog, Chance barked, “They go in the back way,” in case Kruze had forgotten that these three—oh, by the way—were fucking murderers. “Move it. Now!”

Kruze nodded, while he cupped Hex’s elbow and assisted her to her feet with a polite, “There you go, ma’am. Watch your step.”

What the fuck! “Kruze!” Chance bit out. “Now’d be nice.” That earned him a frown, but seriously? Sucking up to the female assassin? Get your head out of your ass, brother.

The trek through the trees to the cabin’s tunnel entrance went fairly smooth. Kruze led out with Hex and Juarez. Chance followed with a surly Zapata, while Suede and Gallo brought up the rear. It made a dog-owner proud to hear Gallo growl every few feet, no doubt warning Zapata. Damned proud.

Once inside their secure basement, Chance sent Suede upstairs. He didn’t want her involved in what had to happen next. Chance wanted answers, and he wasn’t above a little rough play if that was what it took. He added manacles to Zapata’s restraints and locked him in a cell, while Kruze manhandled Juarez into the cell across the hall from Zapata. Miss Hex had taken a seat on the bench outside the two cells as if politely waiting her turn.

“You think you can make me talk?” the stupid man with the chewed-up, bloody face hissed.

Chance finally looked Zapata in the eye. He was a tattooed freak from hell, black ink covering his face, neck and arms. He’d filed his teeth into sharp points, but the fully dilated pupils staring back at him caught Chance’s attention. “What are you on? Coke? Mescaline?”

Disgust stared back at him. “Death,” Zapata spat.

“Then you’re in luck. You came to the right place,” Chance shot back at him. Gallo prowled the hall, but he seemed most interested in Zapata, not Juarez or Hex. Interesting.

Juarez took the bench at the back of his cell, his knees spread and his cuffed hands interlocked between them. His head was up and his dark eyes were clear. Untroubled. Damned disconcerting.

“You,” Chance hissed. “From the Navy to this. What makes a man sink so low?”

Juarez gave him that same cocky chin lift as before. “Let me out of here and I’ll show you.”

“Chance,” Kruze called out from ten feet away where he stood with Miss Vicki, who seemed damned docile given her bad-assed rep. “A minute?”

“Yeah, what?”

Kruze nodded at the clinic door to his right, his hand clutching Hex’s bicep. Her eyes were as clear as Juarez’s, another puzzle Chance hadn’t time to decipher.

“Stay,” Chance told Gallo. Damned if the dog didn’t drop his butt at the door to Zapata’s cell, his ears forward, his hackles up, and his eyes on the man he apparently hated. Chance didn’t blame him, but why the distinction between Zapata and the other killers in the room? What’d Gallo know that he didn’t? Was it merely that Zapata had harmed Suede?

Once inside the clinic where man and dog could be treated if needed, Chance kept one eye on Kruze and Miss Vicki, the other on the hall where Gallo sat at taut attention like the Old Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown in Arlington.

“Shut the door, Chance.”

Tired of the games being played, Chance complied, but turned in a huff to his errant brother, the one who obviously had an in with Hex. “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?” he barked, his fist curled, ready to knock some sense into Kruze’s big, dumb head. “Because I’ve got to tell you, for two cents, I’d—”

“You can’t lock her up,” Kruze said, his voice low.

That spiked Chance’s temper all the more. “Why not? Because you’re sleeping with her?”

Sure as hell, Kruze didn’t deny it, but Hex cocked her saucy head and said, “Because I’m a CIA operative, Retired Chief Petty Officer Chance Sinclair, and thanks to you, I may never be able to fire my weapon again.”