StrongArmsoftheLaw (7 page)

She had to get into a position so that she could hit them to
the jugular or the balls.

Next thing she felt was one man’s hand on her head, stuffing
her into the backseat of a car. She choked on the smell of old fast food
wrappers, empty beer cans and an old bottle of tequila.

“Tie her up,” she heard one of her captors yell to the
other. “Don’t let her back there alone!”

“
Si, si
,” the other man yelled and rattled off a
spate of Spanish as he climbed in beside her.

“Put a gag on her,” one ordered.

No need. Who am I going to yell out to?

“Hey, hey, Ricardo, the lady wears no bra,” the one guy
rubbed his dirty hands over the points of her breasts. “See?”

He laughed as he lifted her t-shirt and she twisted away.
Him,
she would kill. Soon.

The other two ran their bleary-eyed gaze over her bare
breasts and what they said in Spanish, Skye did not want to know. She squeezed
her eyes shut and prayed the guy in the backseat with her had better more
life-preserving things to do than molest her. Or rape her.

She pivoted in the seat, glimpsing Rex, one foot on the
throat of one of his assailants, while the other guy took out a handgun and
pointed it at Rex.

“
Nooooooo!”

“Shut her up!”

She whirled away, but the guy next to her forced her head
around and pressed her to the foul-smelling seat. He made a fist and in one
blow, hit her in the jaw.

When she came to, the sun was going down in a red-hot blaze.
Fierce mountains, black as midnight and odd rocky formations formed the
horizon.
Where the hell am I?

Remembering her predicament, she shut her eyes. And went
lax.

Listening for movement in the car, she heard none. Yet she
felt the warmth of the man in the seat next to her. Smelled him, too. Rancid
little fart, reeking of whiskey and tobacco. His legs were draped over her lap
as insurance, she supposed, that she not move while he slept. Figuring that the
driver would not see her open her eyes from his rearview mirror, she took a
quick peek at the scenery again.
No clue where I am.

And where are you, Rex?

What happened back there?

She wanted to scream out her pain that someone of these thugs
had shot the finest man she’d ever known.
Because he was protecting me.

No. I will think of that later. The guilt. The anguish.
Christ. Just let me get out of here. I’ll testify, by God. I’ll put them so far
away, they’ll think hell has light.

Noting the horizon once more with her head banging against
the window rim, Skye saw they were headed west. But she closed her eyes again,
not wishing to invite any more attentions from her captors with her moves.
Slowly, she took stock of where she was, what was happening. She swallowed
quietly as could be, her throat as dry as dust. Her jaw hurt like hell where
the asshole had slugged her, and she had to pee something fierce. Her
illustrious companions were quiet, the driver the only one moving. The
air-conditioning was crap and Skye felt herself sweating like a pig. Her hands
were cut, stiff, tender, from scrambling away from them. But she had her shoes
on and her jeans. That was a plus.

They haven’t raped you yet. Or killed you.

Why not?

She thought about that and the answer came to her much too
readily.

They’re taking you to their leader
. She forced back a
groan of terror. And that means, they’re headed across the border.

But where was there a crossing they could do that without
attracting law enforcement interest?

They couldn’t drive over one of the International
Checkpoints. Ever since Homeland Security beefed up inspections after 9/11,
those bridges were guarded like the gates to hell. She had no passport—and
since last year, anyone crossing needed that. And these dudes? They were lucky
if they had an idea what their real names were, let alone official documents to
get them across an international border.

So where are we going?

She opened her eyes again to scan the road for mile markers.

The only thing she could see was a speed sign that said
“Speed limit 60.”

That meant they were not on a major interstate where traffic
usually was ten miles more per hour. Plus, the three-lane highway, she could
now see, curved. And it ran up and down abrupt hills. Those black ugly ones she
saw in the distance.
We’re headed for them. Okay…

Every few seconds she would open her eyes to see if she
could find a mile marker to the next town, whatever it was. Dusk shaded the
horizon like a gray veil and soon, she wouldn’t see anything from this vantage
point because she was outside the range of the car’s headlights.

But what if you’re not going across a border? What if
they’re taking you to a hideaway here in west Texas? She assumed, from the
timing, they were still in Texas and had not gone north. Not by this landscape,
we haven’t.

The Gonzagas had safe houses in many parts of south Texas.
If this was Big Bend, then a hideaway here in the most deserted, least
populated counties of the state would make sense. The
familia
would like
this godforsaken landscape. Especially to run a headquarters.

And if we arrive at their headquarters, I won’t live long
after that.

She fought down a groan of terror.

Feeling for the handle of the door, she wondered if she
could open it
.
But her fingers were numb from the ropes binding her
wrists together.
Was the door locked? Dare she try to force her fingers to
move? Would they notice? And then could she open the door and hurl herself out
of the car?

What then?

Would she break an arm? A leg? Hit her head?

She could hope she would be in good enough shape to run. Run
like hell. And where could she hide in this primeval world? There were no
trees. No big fat ones to hide behind. Plus there were wild boars out there.
Huge pigs with long scraggly black hair and sharp white tusks to gouge and kill
people. Bobcats, too, who liked a good meal of human now and then.

Worst of all, she had no gun. No knife. No weapon. Only her
meager training in karate. Her feet and her hands were her most lethal weapons.
And hardly dangerous enough to set her free.

She prayed that when she got to use them, she had enough
strength in her limbs to deliver a violent blow.

The car slowed, the driver lit a cigarette, then said
something to the other two men. She felt the car turn onto a rough road as all
three of her captors began to chatter in Spanish. She couldn’t understand much,
but she did hear, “Manuel.”

And she tried not to tremble. Tried not to freeze.

To meet the head of the Gonzagas, she would need every bit
of her courage and stamina. Manuel was known to have the greatest number of
notches in his belt. For the women he had bedded. And the enemies he had
killed.

Chapter Seven

The driver and his honcho buddy who had sat in the front
seat hauled her by the wrists and neck from the backseat of the car. They
laughed and joked to each other in Spanish. Skye didn’t need an interpreter to
tell her what they meant. Their sneering, salacious looks told her everything
she needed. Her Anglo looks fired them up. Their
jefe
was going to like
raping her. Before, of course, he killed her and…she was pretty sure one of
them said, then fed her to the dogs.

She expected no mercy from any of them. After all, she had
cozied up to their second-in-command. She had planned that flirtation,
intending it to be colorful but brief. Plus, she never expected Jorge Gonzaga
to like her too much. But he had considered her an Anglo prize. Blonde. Buxom.
A trophy girlfriend. She had never slept with him and the night of the murders,
she’d planned to leave him. Leave town. Return home to Chicago and disappear
from his life. He’d changed that when he’d killed those women. Oh, she had
disappeared from his life all right. Immediately running away from him.
Reporting it to the local office of the Rangers, Skye had bypassed the local
sheriff, knowing that man was in league with the Gonzagas and accepting bribes
from them.

Now here she was. Thrust inside a rustic log cabin to stand
in the center and watch the head of the brutal Gonzaga Familia walk around her
like a rancher inspecting a prize horse.

Manuel Gonzaga was tall, dark and painfully ugly. With a
scar that cut the left side of his face from hairline to chin, he was the very
vision of a savage criminal. His black hair was greasy. His body smelled of
salsa, cigarettes and sweat. And his clothes—his jeans and t-shirt—spoke of a
man who thought skintight was sexy and dirty was in.

He approached her, grabbing the hair that wended over her
shoulders. “Very nice. You are even more pretty than Jorge said. Your name?”

She stared at him.

He yanked her hair. “Your name?”

“Skye.”

He repeated it, the brief syllable poison on his tongue.
“The eyes for the sky,
si
? And the hair?” He pulled again. “For the
stars?”

She glared at him.

“Answer me!” He tore at her hair.

“Yes. Whatever you think, that’s what it is.”

“Your mama and papa would not be happy to see you here with
us, would they?”

“No,” she replied because she didn’t want to become bald
talking to this creep.

“Why would you even come here to fuck Jorge, huh? Why?”

“I didn’t come here to do that,” she said, her peripheral
vision taking in that Manuel had only one other person with him in this cabin.
“Untie me. I can’t run from you. You know it. I’m numb.” She put out her hands.
“Please.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I am not stupid.”

“Neither am I. I know what you plan for me.” She stared at
him, daring him to do as she wished. Then she thrust out her hands again.
“Where can I run to? How far, eh?”

He tipped his head, lifted a knife from his back pocket and
sliced through her ropes.

“Why then? Is it true that you write books?” Manuel asked,
edging closer to her and repelling her with his stench.

“Yes. I do.” She wiggled her fingers freely now, and the
pins and needles were diminishing. She widened her stance, her feet feeling
more stable now. Could she walk? Run? Stand up to this jerk? “I write novels.”

“About us?” Manuel spread his thin lips in a gruesome smile.
“Eh? Tell me!”

“No. Not about you. I was researching gangs that work the
Rio Grande border for a fictitious group I created.”

“What is this, fik-shous group?”

“Fictitious,” she corrected him, watching the three who had
captured her, head for the kitchen and return with bottles of beer. They stood
behind their leader and guzzled their drinks, listening and grinning like
fools. “It means I wasn’t writing about the Gonzagas but creating my own gang.”

The five of them doubled over with laughter.

Manuel’s hand tightened on her hair as he came closer and
slid his crooked nose along her throat. In Spanish he said something soft and
low that made her swallow hard and step back.

He wouldn’t let her escape but followed her, crushing her
body close to his wiry one. “I have had no woman in a long time. You will be
mine tonight. All night. As you were once Jorge’s.”

She licked her lips, forced her head back to look him in the
eye and declared, “I was never Jorge’s.”

Manuel cut her a disbelieving look. “He said you have a
tight cunt. That you took him all. Liked him rough.”

“He lied.”

“He would not do that. Not to me.” Manuel was definitely
cocksure.

An idea formed in her mind. If she could not use her body to
run from him, might she use her brains to save herself? “No? You think not?
What else did he tell you about me?”

“That you have big breasts.”

She snorted, braver suddenly though she had little other
than her instinct about his predatory nature to tell her why. “Anyone can see
that. You did not need Jorge to tell you.”

Manuel ran his hand down her spine and pushed her to him
with his hand on her ass. “He said you have a birthmark on your leg—” Manuel
touched her inner left thigh. “Here.”

She let a small smile curl her lips. “He lied.”

Manuel flinched.

“Did he tell you, too, that he didn’t want to introduce you
to me? That he kept putting off the meeting because he said he would have to
kill you when you wanted me?”

Manuel cursed. “Now you lie.”

“Why would I?” she asked him, though she knew if she could
keep him talking to her, every minute was another one to live. “I know he
planned to show me off to the others in the gang,” and this was true. “He wanted
the others to envy him.”

“Good for him.”

“Bad for you,” she shot back. “He wanted to use me to let
the others think he would be a better leader than you.”
He certainly smelled
better.
“That he could get a blonde Anglo. That he was stronger, wiser.”

Manuel shoved her against the wall. She stumbled, but caught
her balance, her palms to the rough timbers.

He whirled on his men. Shouting in Spanish, he was grilling
them about what she’d said. Skye knew because Jorge was in every vitriolic
phrase he uttered.

And as the five of them yelled at each other, denying,
proclaiming, asserting their own truths, she stepped slowly toward the front
door. A foot away, almost there, she froze.

Directly ahead, she spotted the only window in the cabin.
And outside, shadows—long, tall shadows—rippled across the window panes.

Did these five see that?

No. No!

Were those shadows friendly to her?

Oh. God.

She couldn’t wait to find out.

She spun, her legs lunging for the door and just as she got
there, the thing swung open and in charged two huge men.