He watched Mateo’s daughter walk up the street toward the bus. He couldn’t see her facial expression, but her body language seemed stiff. She didn’t move with the confidence he usually saw in her stride. She kept glancing nervously back toward the church. Seeing her father punished last night had angered her — that much was clear. But rules were rules, and he intended to question her about her father’s secret stash of gold.
Franco trained his crosshairs on Tobias as he walked toward the bus.
He subconsciously checked the safety with his thumb and continued his deep breaths. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his body. He loved the feeling and wished he could experience it more often. Perhaps he would. Antonia had some explaining to do.
Franco swung his scope to the flag above the general store. Watching its movement, he decided to add an additional half minute of angle to his wind correction. He returned the crosshairs to his target, blew half a breath out, and began a controlled pull of the trigger.
Seeing his friend’s bandaged ear angered Tobias, but he fabricated the best smile he could. “How’s the ear?”
Mateo stepped out of the bus. “It stings a little, but I’m okay. Thank you for helping me last night.”
“Mrs. Perez made a donation to your family.” He reached into his pocket and removed the money.
At the same instant he extended his hand, Tobias heard a loud crack. It sounded like a giant bullwhip.
An invisible hammer struck his chest.
He clutched his right side and fell backward.
When his head hit the ground, his vision spun, then went dark.
The discharge bucked Franco’s body and slammed his ears. He reacquired Tobias in the scope and saw the man on the ground.
Screams of confusion and panic reached his position as the reverberating concussion of the report crackled off the mountainsides. People scrambled in all directions. None of them wanted to be the next victim.
Somewhere in the red haze of Tobias’s mind, he knew he’d been shot. He also knew he’d never survive this. Overwhelming sadness washed through him… His work here wasn’t finished.
Disconnected from his body, he had a vague sense of lying alone in the middle of the road. Blinding pain erupted along his chest and neck, slamming his mind and body back together.
“Tobias!”
He turned his head and opened his eyes. Mrs. Perez… Running toward him. No, don’t… He didn’t want her exposed out in the open, but he didn’t want to die alone either. He sensed her kneel at his side and take his hand.
“I’m here, Tobias.”
“Please go back, there’s nothing you can—” He coughed and tasted blood.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
He felt her tears fall onto his face and managed a smile. “Please don’t mourn for me. I’ll see you again… Tell the ore workers to wear… their gloves.”
“I will. I promise. I’ll give them away for free.”
“You… have a kind soul, Mrs. Perez.”
“I love you, Tobias. Everyone loves you.”
“Please… forgive them.” He coughed up more blood.
When he felt his consciousness begin to fade, Pastor Tobias began a silent prayer to God for living a blessed life.
Franco watched the touching exchange with mixed emotions. He didn’t feel especially good about killing the pastor, but orders were orders, and he wasn’t willing to question Macanas’s authority. Doing El Jefe’s bidding had made him a small fortune, enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. He didn’t plan on dying centavo-less like the rest of the peasants in that cursed town.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and crawled out of the hole. After replacing the branch and covering its cut end, he made his way up to the trail and took a final look toward town. The woman remained at Tobias’s side. A few people stood next to the buildings lining the road, but they didn’t approach. His instincts told him to hurry, but he kept slinking at a slow pace until he reached the deeper cover of trees. He had an hour before the SUV returned, so he took his time removing his ghillie suit and tying it to his backpack.
In many ways, the miners would be better off without Tobias. All that old man did was give them a false sense of hope. Macanas didn’t force them to work the mines. Any of them could leave Santavilla any time they wanted. They stayed because Macanas gave them employment.
Although Franco didn’t feel guilt over killing Tobias, he did feel a nagging sense of apprehension. Get a grip, he told himself. The foolish beliefs of that old man were meaningless, based on superstition and ignorance. He had nothing to fear. But as he hiked up the trail, Tobias’s words echoed through his mind.
You will answer to God for this.
CHAPTER 3
Nathan McBride swung the ax with precision and power. The blade cleaved through the twelve-inch-diameter log, splitting it cleanly. He placed one of the halves upright on the stump and split it again. He’d been at this all afternoon and had worked up quite a sweat. A troubling sense of uneasiness had invaded him, and to make matters worse, he couldn’t pinpoint its source. Nathan had no illusions about his nature. He possessed a conflicted personality, but his mood had been predominantly dark for several days. It felt like a mental splinter he couldn’t remove. Whatever the cause, he knew from past experience the only way to purge the anxiety was through physical exertion, and making firewood did the trick. Nathan didn’t understand why it worked; it just did.
Nathan was a big man and used all of his six foot five, 240-pound bulk to generate a lot of power. He didn’t just swing the ax — he hammered it through the wood with a vengeance.
Nathan never removed his shirt in public, but here in the privacy of his backyard he’d tossed it aside. The late afternoon sun glistened off his upper body. His build mirrored that of an NFL linebacker, but no football player had dozens of long scars crisscrossing his torso at one-inch spacing. As punishment for not cooperating, his former tormentor had methodically sliced his skin with a searing knife, being careful not to make gouges deep enough to be fatal — just excruciating painful. Nathan had gotten used to the wicker-basket pattern on his skin, but the marks were a brutal reminder of a battle against insanity he’d once fought — a battle he’d nearly lost. Below graying hair that used to be reddish brown, his face also held grisly souvenirs. From forehead to chin, three lengthy scars dominated his expression. A plastic surgeon had repaired them, but they were still plainly visible. When people stared, he was often tempted to say, What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a man with a giant N carved on his face? Coupled with his dark-blue eyes, the scars gave him a “don’t mess with me” look.
Three weeks. That’s how long he’d endured the twisted musings of a sadistic interrogator after his botched mission… Had it really been more than twenty years ago? Shouldn’t two decades have been enough time to recover? Apparently not. He still woke up drenched in sweat, ready to kill anything that moved. The physical aspect of enduring pain had been manageable, but the hatred he’d discovered within his soul had produced a deeper, much more savage wound.
In the early years after his forced retirement, he’d become addicted to alcohol. In bars, he’d often been challenged by drunk “tough guys” wanting to test themselves, and Nathan had been more than willing to administer their exams. He remembered looking at his bloody knuckles one night and thinking, This isn’t who I am. Why am I doing this? He’d experienced an epiphany, realizing he’d actually been seeking confrontations. He’d falsely believed that beating the tar out of a bully would make him feel better. Hurting other people — even jerks who deserved it — had put him on a corrosive journey. He’d felt like a wounded insect that could only crawl in a circle.