The Edge of Trust: Team Edge (17 page)

Dreena, of course, immediately asked him to join them for another game.  With a smile and nod, Dario waited for the last of the present game to end.  Adoña, Xavier and Dreena were the only three playing at the moment, and Dreena seemed to be winning due, no doubt, to her shrewd ability to charm and distract.  Rafe watched his family with a contentment he seldom felt.

From the corner of his eye, Rafe saw Marco wander outside onto the center terrace.  Oddly, Dario excused himself a moment later and followed Marco’s footsteps.  The two men disliked each other enough to make Rafe wonder what kind of trouble this impromptu rendezvous might lead to.  Wary, Rafe decided this was, perhaps, a good time to enjoy a cigar. 

Rafe’s home encircled an oasis style patio.  A fountain quietly sprayed and bubbled in the center of the courtyard.  Sweet smelling flowers sprawled in an orderly, well manicured, abandon.  Columned archways led through a discreet garden walkway to a natural hot spring fed by a small manmade waterfall.  Leaning against a stone pillar, Rafe stood in the shadows.  Neither man had heard him enter the patio. 

Marco’s voice sounded irritated.  “I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

“You’re looking especially nice tonight, Marco,” Dario said.  “White oxford, khakis, sport Espadrilles.  Very American GQ.  All pressed and groomed.  Let’s keep it that way, ‘eh?”

“You are a bug.  Go away.”

“You’re not doing that shit here.  Not in this house, not on this property.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can do on my family’s estate?”

Tense, Rafe slipped the cigar back into his shirt pocket.  Stayed put and listened.

“To Dreena, I am an uncle.”

“And to me, houseboy, you are nothing.”  Marco held a small silver spoon to his nose and did a quick bump of white powder. 

Rafe was tempted to step in.  He did not allow his family or his men to do drugs.  Those who did were fired immediately.  He played supply and demand economics, had enough leverage to stay out of jail, and enough blood on his hands to keep his people in line. 

But this--

His own brother.  In Rafe’s home.

Anger rolled through him and he thought about taking a baseball bat to Marco’s knees.  Stupid fuck. 

With a deep breath, he watched to see how Dario would play this out.

“How long you been chasing the peak?”  Dario studied his nails and asked the question softly. 

“Fuck off.”  Marco had that surge of cocaine confidence, edgy and indestructible. 

“You like needles?”  Dario remained calm, almost friendly, and Rafe felt his heart speed.   He knew that tone well.  If Marco hadn’t been feeling bulletproof, he’d have been smart enough to take heed.

Marco two-stepped to the fountain and back.  “Huh?  What?”

“Those sharp things junkies use to inject poison into their veins.  You like those?”

A giggle, then, “Fuck no.  What are you, stupid?”

“Sticks and stones, Marco.”  In one easy move, so fluid Marco never saw it coming, Dario struck a knife handed blow to Marco’s nose.  The cartilage made an ugly popping sound. 

Marco reeled back, bleeding and cursing. 

“Broken nose hurts like hell.  Takes a while for the swelling to go down too.  Guess you’re gonna have to smoke that shit.  Unless, you know, I break your windpipe.”

“My brother will kill you!”

“Here’s what you’re going to do.”  Dario casually leaned his back against the stucco wall.  “You’re going to dump that shit into the toilet, make yourself pretty again, then you’re going to kiss Dreena goodnight and leave.  You won’t come back to this house until the Coca blues are gone.  For good.”

Marco laughed as he wiped blood from his nose.  “I can’t hear you, houseboy.”

Dario straightened.  Walked through the archway to the front drive.  Rafe shifted his position, watched Marco mosh along behind.

Dario pulled a 9mm from his hip holster.  Attached a sound suppressor and shot out the back window of Marco’s very expensive Mercedes.  “Can you hear me now, Cupcake?”

Marco lunged like an enraged bull.  Dario sidestepped at the last second and planted a foot against the side of Marco’s knee.  Marco went down.  Surprise and fury exploded across his face.  “I will kill you myself!”

Dario knelt on one knee.  Gave Marco’s face a gentle pat.  “That knee is gonna hurt.  Gonna hurt worse if I break it.  You want me to break it?  Or,” Dario said, looking at his weapon, “I can shoot you.  Although that might be a little messy.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”  Marco’s voice had a whiney edge to it.  Still coked up, but not quite so smug.

“I’m crazy about Dreena, yes.  And you,” Dario put the gun to Marco’s temple, “are out of options.”

“You’re a fucking nutcase!”

“Shh.  No more talking.”  Dario tapped Marco hard on the nose. 

Marco curled into himself, swallowing, Rafe figured, a long gurgle of pain.

Dario stood, started toward the house.  “Get in your car and leave.  I’ll give Dreena your regards.”  He stopped, turned slightly.  “If you come back here coked up, in this lifetime or your next, I’ll kill you.”

If Rafe didn’t trust Dario so much, even though Rafe knew that was not this man’s name, he might very well have killed him for taking on Marco like that.  For doing what had always been his job, his duty.  But the trust was there, the loyalty, and Marco had broken a major rule.

Dario went inside.  Rafe followed.  Domino awaited.

If Rafe had killed Caldwell that night, Marco would still be alive.  If, however, was an unsatisfactory word, and one Sanchez had no use for.  Revenge was, in all ways, much sweeter. 

He picked up the phone and dialed.  A clipped, “Yeah?” came over the line. 

“Well, well, Señor Caldwell.  It’s been a long time, no?  You have exactly forty-eight hours to return my thumb drive before Matt Jackson will die.  And tell your pretty wife I have her, shall we say,
package
.”

He hung up.  Let the bastard squirm.

Sanchez cuddled the child close.  The baby gurgled, gave him a happy, sloppy grin.  Rafe smiled.  Then he pinched the baby and reveled in her cries.

<><><>

Sanchez. 

Dillon’s body went stiff with hate as he recognized the voice.  But before he had half a chance to say one single word, the line went dead.

His palm slammed against the desk in frustration.  Deliver the drive where?  Colombia?  Mexico?  Next fucking door?  The bastard never said
where
.  And Dillon had no idea where Sanchez was spending his time these days.  He punched in call return and got nothing. 

Sanchez wanted him to sweat, wanted him to squirm, playing these stupid mind games, and the bitch of it was, he
was
sweating.
 
Forty-eight hours wasn’t nearly enough.
 
Hell, forty-eight
days
might not be enough.
 
If he didn’t pull off some kind of colossal cosmic miracle, Matt was already as good
as dead.   

Dillon shook his head.  Matt? 

And just what the hell kind of package was Sanchez talking about?  Holy shit, how many more secrets did Sara have?  And why Matt?  How had Sara’s brother, of all people, gotten involved in this?  Matt should’ve been halfway around the world on some dig, chasing bones or something, ass deep in security.     

What the bloody hell was going
on
?

He was floundering.  Sliding down a slippery slope and damned if he could find his footing.

With worry biting into his skull, Dillon threw the phone down.  At that exact instant, the sharp crack of an unsilenced gunshot and breaking glass thundered into the room. 

A bullet zinged over Sara’s head, missing her by less than an inch.

<><><>

The hammer and chisels banging away in Matt’s head hurt like a bitch.  And the fact that the sky was falling only magnified the pounding.  Holy crap, the rain battering the corrugated tin roof was loud enough to drown out a friggin’ marching band. 

He grabbed his head as a blast of thunder shot through his skull.  Strike that last thought.  This was worse than
ten
marching bands with a shitload of percussion.  His brain cells were being pounded into mush.

He let go of his head long enough to push himself into a sitting position, then had to take several deep breaths to control the nausea and pain threatening to beat him back into the blackness.

It hadn’t stopped raining since he’d been tossed into this stinking pit of a cell sometime...was it just yesterday? 

Yeah, yesterday.  Unless he’d been unconscious a lot longer than he’d thought.

Considering the size of the knot on his head, the bruises and burns and cuts on his chest, arms and back, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been out of it for days.  The guards must have beat him silly when he was unconscious because he didn’t remember being in this much pain when Sanchez had him hanging up like a side of beef.   

And shit, the kid was dead.  That much he knew.  Just before Sanchez had bashed Matt in the head, he’d shot Juan in the chest at least twice.

He couldn’t help but think maybe Juan had been trying to tell him something through all that incoherent babble.  Hell, the kid had never spoken one word more than necessary as long as Matt had known him, so all that gibberish had to have meant something.  But what? 

“Manny?  You remember that time when you were twelve and mama took us to the beach?”

No, not even, because it never happened.  

“...and we had a treasure map.  I thought a pirate took it but you gave it to mama for safekeeping.  Then you made friends with Maggie and you two made forts.  I didn’t get to help.  I had to watch out for Maggie’s brother.  He was bad.  He would have destroyed your empire.” 

And just what the hell was that supposed to mean, and who the fuck was Maggie? 

Damn, his head hurt.

Sweet merciful God, he hoped Sara was still alive.  He’d pushed her overboard close to Coronado, but she’d had a helluva swim before she hit solid ground, and between the storm and the current--

At least fighting the ocean gave her a chance.  Sanchez would’ve never let her go alive.  No, he would have tortured and raped her, then tossed her overboard for the sharks.

Feeling sick, he sat up with a dispirited moan and looked around his cell.  Cement and rock walls.  Dirt floor slanting just enough to cause small rivers of muddy water to run from one side to the other.  No window, only a small gap of daylight where the piece-of-shit roof met the walls. 

And, holy crap, it was hotter than hell inside.  Literally.  He assumed hell had some sort of airflow in order to keep the fires burning.  Not this place.  It was hot and humid with no ventilation.  Shit, he was going to cook faster than Sunday dinner.

He pushed himself off the muddy floor and sloshed through brackish, brown water to push against the heavy metal door.  It didn’t so much as budge.  And there was no doorknob, which meant there had to be some sort of latch on the outside. 

He slammed a fist against the metal.  “Hey!  Anybody home!”

Nobody answered and Matt wondered if he was alone, or if there was a guard somewhere out there who couldn’t hear him over the pounding rain.

And where was he anyway?  Tijuana?  Puerto Vallarta?  Colombia?  Sanchez never stayed in one place too long, and there was no telling what hole he’d stuck Matt in. 

Not that it mattered.  If there was a way out, he’d find it.  He had to.  He had to know if Sara was alive.
 
She might be all grown up and married, but she was still his little sister.  And she had a lifetime yet to live.  He hoped.

Her life had never been simple, but even at twelve, he’d made sure their family’s team of high-powered attorneys had gotten Sara out of the system as much as possible and sent her to an elite boarding school until she graduated and went to Columbia.  He’d done his best to make up for what their father had done to her.  Still, she had the nightmares.

He had his own, of his father’s fists, his life in corrections--which the state liked to refer to as the Division of Juvenile Justice--at least until he went to big boy prison, but he was sure his past could never have compared to the horrors his sister had faced.  Was still facing. 

Sanchez was hunting her like a great fanged panther, just waiting to rip and bite and claw.  And he wouldn’t give up until one of them was dead.

This was Dillon’s fault.  Dillon’s fault that Lisa, Dillon’s sister, Matt’s fiancé hadn’t stood a chance.  And Sara still didn’t know.  Might never know.

Heartsick, Matt slid down the heavy door until he was ass deep in mud.  He put his hand out, willing Sara alive, wishing she was close enough to touch.  Wishing he knew where the child he’d promised to protect could possibly be.  Words, like gunshots, echoed through his mind.
 

“Ellie.  Her name is Ellie. 

She looked behind her into the darkest corner where her child lay quietly sleeping.  “I… No.  I can’t.  I can’t leave her.  I won’t.  I’d rather whore myself to Sanchez.” 

“If you don’t leave, you’re both going to die.  Or you’ll die and she’ll be sold on the black market.  Baby brokers.  Sweat shops.  Sex trade.  Is that what you want?”

No.  I… She’s my baby.  I have to protect her.  I’m all she has.” 

“Please, Sara, go.  If you stay and Sanchez kills you, and believe me, he will, Ellie will pay the price.  I promise, I’ll do my best to--”

He’d tried.  God knew, he’d tried.  And so far he’d failed.

He hadn’t saved Lisa, and maybe not Sara or Ellie.

His hand, still reaching for someone he might never again touch, folded into a fist and dropped to the ground.  Matt wasn’t a man given to weeping or praying, but right now he found himself doing both.

One thing was for damn sure.  The next time he saw Rafael Sanchez, he was going to send the murdering bastard straight to hell.

And then he was going to kill the man backing him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Adrenaline forced Dillon’s instincts into action.  Sara ducked and covered her head.  In a split second, he pulled her onto the floor, pinning her body beneath his.  Years of training kicked in and all of his senses sharpened as he listened for any indication that the shooter was closing in.