Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller (33 page)

As fast as possible without dropping her guard, she checked him for more weapons, taking a spare clip of ammunition and a folding knife from him. He wore a jeans jacket over a hoodie. She restrained his hands behind his back with a flex-cuff. Carefully crouching low enough to retrieve his pistol, an anonymous nine-millimeter, she pocketed it then turned him around.

Fatima had pivoted to watch. Fear narrowed her eyes as she hunched her shoulders protectively around the baby.

“It’s okay,” Lucy whispered to her. She glanced over her shoulder. No sign of the second man. But he’d be back soon, she was certain. She shoved her captive behind the counter and inside the food stand’s prep area. Looked like Zapata’s men had made themselves at home, leaving hot dogs, hamburgers, and pizza scattered over the countertops.

Lucy grabbed a dishtowel, tied it as a gag around the man’s head with the drawstring from his hoodie, and pushed him into the walk-in pantry. She restrained his ankles with flex-cuffs. Then she locked the door and ran back to Fatima.
 

Men’s voices came from the direction of the aquarium. Lucy grabbed Fatima’s arm. “We have to go. Now.”

<><><> 

The room was total darkness. Jenna’s mind felt blurry, like a car windshield that refused to defrost no matter how high you turned up the fan. Slowly awareness returned. She sat on a wooden chair, arms and legs bound to it by zipties that bit into her flesh.

Her body ached, someone had used her as a punching bag—oh yeah, that would be the guys who’d jumped her. She ran her tongue over her teeth, all there, but there was blood in her mouth and her jaw was sore. Her ribs hurt when she breathed, but at least she was breathing. Her gut ached like she’d been sucker punched but no pain below, no feeling of… she hadn’t been raped.

She shook the thoughts from her head and tried to produce some saliva. A bright light clicked to life, aimed at her face, blinding her. Shadows crowded all around her and she realized there were men standing in them, watching her.

“You have to make her talk,” one of the men whispered. Raziq, the bastard. “We need to know if we are compromised.”

Another man whispered back. “Leave it to me. Go, get ready.”

A door opened, allowing faint light to momentarily invade the room. Jenna took a quick inventory. Cinderblock walls, wooden shelves with large, white pill bottles on the far wall, a small metal desk to one side with a stack of notebooks on it. A man sidled out and the door closed again before she could see anything more.

“I’m a federal agent.” She tried to shout but her mouth was so dry it came out more like a croak. “Let me go. I’m a federal agent.”

“Yes, we know.” A calm voice came from the shadows. Accent Hispanic, but not very thick. Invisible hands scraped a chair forward until it faced hers. Moments later a man in an elegant black suit sat down in the chair, crossing his legs, his head hidden by shadows.
 

The man had to be Zapata, but there was no way in hell she was going to let him know that she knew who he was. The less he knew about what they knew, the better.

“Who are you?” Jenna asked after the silence became unbearable. “My name is Jenna Galloway, I’m a federal law enforcement agent. If you let me go—”

The man laughed, cutting her off. “Why should we care if you’re a
federale
?”  He leaned forward as if confiding a particularly tasty morsel of gossip. “Do you know what we do to
federales
in my country? We cut off their hands and feet while they’re still alive and give them to their family to bury. When we’re done with the rest of the body, we drag it through the street behind our trucks and sew their faces onto soccer balls.”

“What do you want?” Tears mingled with her words. They hadn’t made any demands. That couldn’t be good. It meant she had nothing to bargain with.

The man sat back, staring at her as he lit a cigar. “Do you know what my favorite bird is?”

Jenna wasn’t sure she heard the bizarre question correctly. He arched an eyebrow and nodded at her to answer. “I don’t—uh—the eagle?”

“No. No. Not the eagle. The vulture. Such hard workers. Yet they are maligned for doing their job. Just like I am. I do a job. I supply a need. I give my customers good value. But I am hunted down, cursed, treated like a dog in the street.”

He paused but Jenna had no idea what to say to that.
 

What would Lucy do? The thought almost made her laugh. Saint Lucy would have taken them all on, no doubt, using her superpowers of persuasion to get them to let her go, maybe tie themselves up in a nice gift package while she was at it. Saint Lucy wouldn’t have gotten caught off guard in the first place.

Jenna was no saint. “Let me go,” she told him, anger and fear making her voice shrill. “There’s the death penalty for harming federal agents in this country.”

Zapata nodded, his cigar bobbing. “
Si
, in my country as well. But, you interrupt. I was telling you about the vultures.”

“I don’t care about the—” From behind her, a man’s hand jerked her chin down with a brutal twist and slid a knife between her teeth, silencing her.

“It is rude to interrupt. Back home I have a special place. Home to my vultures. And Carlos,” he nodded to the man behind her, “he is a very special man. A butcher. First it was cows and pigs, but now he has an expertise. We bring the bodies to my fields where the vultures live. Dozens, no hundreds, of them. They watch and wait—they know what’s coming. Carlos, he prepares the bodies just so. Slices open rib cages so the vultures don’t have to work to reach the heart and lungs, pulverizes bones so the vultures can suck out all the marrow, cuts off the heads and crushes the skull until the brain is exposed.

“Then we stand back and I call the vultures. They come like that.” He snapped his fingers. “And they eat and eat and eat. All in a few minutes. Then, whoosh,” He flicked his cigar ash into the air; it vanished into the shadows. “All gone. Nothing left but a few pieces of bone to use the sledgehammer on. Dust to dust in a matter of minutes. All because of my vultures.”

She closed her eyes, trying to hide from the image Zapata painted. She'd heard about a DEA video that had captured a scene like he'd described—had dismissed it as urban legend. DEA cowboys telling tall tales. But Zapata wasn't lying. It was true. All of it.

He jerked his chin at Carlos who removed the knife. Jenna dared swallow again, tasting blood from where the sharp blade had pressed against her tongue. She had the sudden need to pee, strained to focus on not suffering that indignity.
 

“I need to send a message to your
federales
. They need to understand this is now my city. Not theirs. But first you will tell me: who else knows we’re here?”

He looked so earnest, so much like a damn bad movie villain, that she couldn’t stop the laughter that burbled from her, blood speckling her spittle. “You don't scare me. There aren’t any vultures in Pittsburgh.”

He chuckled along with her. The laughter was cathartic, purging some of her fear—but not her anger. Good, she’d need that.

“You are correct,
chica
. But there are other, terrible ways to send a message." Carlos’ palm grasped the top of her head, his fingers forcing her eyelids open. Zapata regarded his cigar as if it was inferior quality. Then he put it out. Against the back of Jenna's hand.

She couldn't help but scream. Zapata merely smiled. Jenna forced herself to swallow, it was the only way to stop the scream, focused on her breathing, trying to block out the pain.

"This is the message I will send. We will be leaving soon in a helicopter. You will accompany us. At least for the first minute of flight." He paused, one eyebrow lifted. "What do you think your corpse will look like after falling eight hundred feet?"

Jenna stared at him. The man was insane. She remembered her briefings about the Mexican cartels and their inhuman brutality. Sadistic pigs, she’d thought them at the time. It hadn’t seemed at all real, as if all those decapitated bodies, those tortured men and women were fictional characters, not real life flesh and blood people.

This was the twenty-first century. They’d eradicated smallpox, cured polio, been to the Moon and Mars and beyond. Even after what she’d seen tonight, what Zapata described—no, it didn’t feel real.

Zapata stared at her, his smile revealing his teeth—all of them. He just kept smiling. And she knew it was real.
 

Her only hope was if Lucy found her in time. Jenna screamed, shouting for help, for mercy, for God.

Victor smiled. “Pray all you want,
chica
. God is not here. Only me.”

Chapter 39

At Esther’s, Nick had been able to hold off the Rippers by playing the fool. He was a white man, clueless, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and to them that was hilarious. Plus, they’d been in no rush. They knew they had the upper hand: Esther was in the house and wouldn’t be able to leave without going through them.

If it hadn’t been for the nuns arriving with Jadon’s aunt, Nick might have ended up dead.
 

The Gangstas would be an entirely different matter, he thought as he rode in the back of the white church van with Patrice and Agnes. The Gangstas had come roaring into Ripper territory looking for war only to find the enemy had already left. All that pent-up anger and adrenalin needed an outlet. Right now they were taking it out on the innocent civilians the Rippers had deserted. Nick could get them to turn their attention to him instead, but it might have deadly consequences.

There had to be another way. Not the gun—the Gangstas’ guns were bigger, faster, badder than Nick’s little pistol. What was left?

Lucy knew how to deal with men like the Gangstas. She always said that the trick to catching criminals, whether street thieves or serious predators, was the same: give them what they want but don’t let them take it.

What did he have that the Gangstas wanted?

They arrived at the Morewood Terraces. Surrounding the parking lot, giving the housing project the shape of a three-leaf clover, were circular grassy areas, each with nine single-story, two-family brick duplexes crowded shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter. They reminded Nick of Conestoga wagons circled against a common enemy.

There was no breathing space between buildings—one unit’s windows opened directly into its neighbor’s. Back in the seventies when they were built he was sure the designers thought them a step up from high-rise public housing. But if Nick had been planning an experiment on overcrowding and its negative impacts, he wouldn’t have had to go farther than the Terraces.

As soon as the van stopped, porch lights flicked on and doors opened. Sister Patrice jumped out, leaving Sister Agnes behind the wheel with the motor running. Women and children, elderly men, two sheepish teenaged boys prodded by older women, shoulders hunched as if trying to make themselves look smaller than they were, all came pouring from the buildings, clutching pillowcases and gym bags and shopping bags with possessions.

Nick got out as well, opened the side doors so people could get in. There was no way they’d be able to take everyone in one trip.

The first group was still several yards away from the van when the first shots rang out. The
tat-a-tat-a-tat
of a machine pistol. The people barely flinched. They simply froze, staring down at the ground.

“Look at the rats fleeing the fire,” a man said, emerging from the shadows. He was dressed all in black, including a black ball cap with a large G on it. More men dressed similarly also stepped forward—all holding guns. “No one goes anywhere ’til I get what I came for.”

Sister Patrice urged her flock to keep moving. “Ignore them.” She turned to face the Gangstas. “There’s no need to bully innocent women and children.”

The leader took two steps forward, staring her down. “Think I won’t shoot a nun? Think I give a shit about your God? Think again, lady.”

He raised his gun. Nick’s stomach clenched in anticipation. The Gangsta was going to execute Sister Patrice. He was sure Lucy would have had some brilliant tactical maneuver but all he had was himself.

Nick strolled forward into the no man’s land between the Gangstas and the civilians. “Maybe I can be of assistance?”

The Gangsta glowered at him, eyebrows hunched together, mouth tight. Nick smiled at him. Behind him, Sister Patrice kept the people moving to the van.

“You lost, white boy? Know what we do to folks like you around here?”

Nick’s smile didn’t falter. “I know what you want.” He paused. “I know how to get it for you.”

The Gangstas laughed, but their posture relaxed. “You know nothing.”

“I know the Rippers deserted these people,” he raised his voice so that everyone could hear him. If this was going to work, he’d need help from the people on both sides of the guns. “They ran out on them, left them unprotected. They also left behind some product of value to you.”

The last was a guess, but the Rippers didn’t seem forward thinking enough to have emptied every stash house—besides, where would they put it? Not like they could carry it with them as they rampaged throughout the city. Nick had the feeling tonight wasn’t supposed to go the way it had, that the Rippers had started something that got out of control.