The rectangular shape of the grave had saved them, by channeling the main power of the blast straight up into the sky. Still, the strike was awful. People were down all around, stunned and shaken or wounded or dead. Swanson coughed for air and wiped his eyes, then rolled away, a sharp pain at his back.
He knelt and checked the women. Mickey’s mother was unconscious. Elizabeth had scrabbled to her knees on the littered ground, and they stared at each other for a moment as the stunned silence gave way to a commotion.
They concentrated on helping the older woman, checking her air passages and making sure there were no broken bones. Sirens were sounding. People were yelling. “Mama will be okay,” Beth declared. “How could they do this?” Looking at Kyle, her face filled with a mixture of sorrow, rage, and hate, she swore, “I will make whoever did it pay! I want back in!”
2
Swanson remained still as chaos spread to allow things to settle enough to get past the buzzing ears and the instant headache and the showering dirt and debris. He had to assess the situation and get the hell out of this mess.
People were fleeing toward perceived safety. Others stumbled about in shock. The desecration of the grave had been complete, and with no regard for the innocent. Castillo’s enemies had struck a horrendous blow that would stand as a warning of the fate awaiting anyone who opposed the cartels. Even death would not end the punishment.
First things first. He was okay. Beth was okay. Mama Castillo didn’t look so good. Her skin was gray. A trail of blood that trickled from one eye was probably just a vitreous hemorrhage. No broken bones were apparent, but her pulse was weak. She would live, although Swanson didn’t think she would like the world into which she awoke.
“She’s good enough to move back to the ranch,” he said. “Best we avoid the hospitals and bring in our own medical care. It will be safer out there.”
“Yeah,” Beth agreed. She barked a string of instructions in fluent Spanish to a young Mexican marine, who took off at a run to organize an escape convoy.
“Get one of the cops over here and translate for me,” Swanson said, and she waved to a policeman with a sweaty face and a missing cap. He recognized her and loped through the rubble.
“Señora Castillo? Are you hurt?” He was studying them, looking for injuries.
She nodded and held up a finger to silence him. “Kyle, this is Sergeant Rey. What do you want him to do?”
Swanson was on one knee. He pointed across the debris field to where the backhoe had been toppled to one side by the blast. “We need to secure that tractor. The man who was beside it may be involved in the bombing. Rey, you take charge of it — and don’t let anyone else even touch it until the machine can be checked for fingerprints and other evidence.”
“Yes, sir,” the policeman said, not needing a translation. But he wanted to do more than just stand by a tractor. He wanted to shoot somebody. “Is there anything else?”
Swanson spoke directly to him. “Tell your guys to locate the regular gravedigger. Likely he’s dead somewhere nearby and another man took his place. That would probably be the bomber.”
The cop seemed a bit wobbly, dealing with the vestiges of his own shock. “Help is already on the way. Can I take you to your car, señora?”
Beth shook her head. “Rey, listen closely. Start the search, then stand guard at the tractor. It is very important. Thank you for your concern, but we will be fine. Now go!”
“You saw the bomber?” she asked Swanson.
“Maybe. I saw somebody who didn’t belong,” he said. “No need to speculate until we see what the cops turn up. Now let’s get Mama out of here.”
The ragtag convoy sliced, bumped, and burrowed its way through the old streets of San Luis de la Paz with a police escort of SUVs mounted with machine guns, blaring sirens, and flashing warning lights. Swanson felt absolutely naked. He had flown out of Washington upon getting the news about the fatal shootout. To avoid airport and customs hassles and delays, he chose to leave his personal weapon at home, because he could always borrow one from the substantial armory of the Castillo ranch. Then he got caught up in the emotional funeral arrangements and decided to let the security detail do its job while he provided comfort and support to the widow and the mother of his friend. After all, what could go wrong at a funeral? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Now everywhere he looked he saw potential kill zones, and all he had was a heavy six-shot .375 Magnum revolver that he’d borrowed from the driver of the Mercedes. The long-barreled weapon wasn’t even the real deal but a knockoff of the Smith & Wesson made famous in the Dirty Harry movies. Not even close to a modern Desert Eagle. While checking the load, Swanson discovered that the gun had been manufactured by a Chinese factory that was in the cheap mail-order gun business. He kept it pointed down beside the seat as a safety precaution. The heavy car rocketed across a curb.
He was in the front seat and both Mrs. Castillos were in the back, with Mama still out cold and Beth cradling her in her arms. “Keep your Beretta handy,” he said over his shoulder. She always kept the small weapon in her purse.
“I can get to it if we need it. Do your own job.” Her voice was tight. She resented being told something so basic.
They weaved through a traffic roundabout and were well away from the cemetery, headed for open country. Swanson didn’t breathe easier until he saw the first cow in a field. There were few places for death to hide in open pasture. He glanced back and caught Beth staring at him, and he shrugged and went back to watching the livestock.
Elizabeth Ledford Castillo was one of the most interesting people he had ever met, and they went back a long way. A corn-fed American blonde from the Midwest, she had been a remarkable sharpshooter from girlhood. Nobody could explain the uncanny gift, other than that she was like a child-savant pianist, only she was a prodigy with firearms. It was almost as if she didn’t even have to aim at a target to punch it out. Her protective family shunned publicity when the reporters came knocking after hearing tales about the new wunderkind Annie Oakley.
She remained on the quiet farm throughout high school, but excitement beckoned, and to make her gift something more than an oddity she joined the U.S. Coast Guard, because at the time it was the only service branch that allowed women to really shoot. It didn’t take her long to qualify as a sniper who could take out live targets, stinging them from the open door of a helicopter, which meant that both she and the targets were moving when the trigger was pulled. Bandits, pirates, and drug smugglers all suffered beneath the cool, methodical aim of Beth Ledford.
She was satisfied with her assignments until her brother, a physician, was killed by terrorists during a flood-relief mission of Médecins Sans Frontières, Doctors Without Borders. Beth was devastated, and would not let the situation rest. Instead of the cooperation she expected from her superiors, she ran into a buzz saw of official opposition and trouble from people with other agendas. That was when she appeared on the radar of Kyle Swanson’s old team, Task Force Trident, an élite black-ops unit. The small, pretty young woman, who was only about twenty-five at the time, started out almost as a mascot. They called her Coastie.
But she soon proved to be a valuable tool for the team, because she really could shoot as good as, or better than, any of them. Well, Swanson thought, she wasn’t better than him, although that was never tested, because he might not like the answer. Beyond the absurd marksmanship, Coastie carried a touch of murder in her soul and the uncompromising determination of a backwoods preacher. Beth Ledford developed into a stone-cold killer and a smooth Trident operator, someone Swanson was always happy to have as a partner. In fact, she had even saved his life. There had been romantic opportunities that never bloomed because of Kyle’s emotional isolation. Then she fell in love with Mickey Castillo instead and retired from the game so that they could get married. Swanson knew he could have had Beth himself had he just been able to say, “I love you,” but he couldn’t. He had said that before to other women, and those words packed too much hurt, so he settled for being best man at their wedding and a good friend to both.