Care gave an emphatic shake of her head, eyes wide, body twitching. “Matt’s right,” she said. “We have to let her know.”
She got up to run, but Valentine was on her in an instant. He grabbed a fist full of dreadlocks and heaved, jerking her over backwards. She hit the ground with a groan, but he split her lip with a quick fist to the face to make sure he had her attention.
The fireball from the first explosion reflected off his twisted face as he pulled back to strike her again and again, turning her face into a bloody pulp.
Pollard sat motionless, trapped between the murder of an innocent dealership employee and the vicious assault of one of their own by a member of his group.
The third explosion sent the hood of the black Suburban shrieking overhead to slam into the overpass abutment. The sickening crash snapped Pollard out of his stupor.
“Knock it off!” he said, shoving Valentine off a bewildered Care.
Blood poured from her nose and lips, dripping from her chin and soaking her blond dreadlocks. Her teeth showed pink in the firelight of burning cars. “No one was supposed to get hurt,” she moaned.
“Just keep our heads,” Valentine said. “If we keep our heads, everything will be fine.”
“Oh, you mean like when you were beating the shit out of me?” Care winced. She clutched at her forehead with both hands. “You bastard, I think you broke my skull.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said, waving her off. “We did what we came to do — send a message. There is often collateral damage in this sort of action.”
“Screw that,” Care said, stumbling to her feet. “I’m going down there to see if maybe she’s alive.”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Pollard froze. He knew Care was right. There was a chance the woman had survived the explosions. Someone should go check on her — but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Zamora pulled a pistol from his waistband and made his choice for him.
“You hear that?” he said, pointing the gun at Care. “The cops are on their way.”
“Good.” She rocked back and forth, clutching her head. “I can talk to them when they get here.”
The dealership was fully engulfed in flames now. Every few seconds a fuel tank on one of the gas hogs blew, sending jagged shards of glass and metal whirring into the night sky.
Care swayed, blinking dizzy eyes. She looked at the pistol and smirked, her bloody face backlit by the orange fireball. “Put that away,” she said. “You wouldn’t shoot me, Valentine.”
Pollard felt as if his joints were locked in place. Unable to make himself move, he watched helplessly as Valentine Zamora fired twice. The first shot hit her in the throat, the second in the shoulder.
The gun hung motionless in Zamora’s hand. For a terrifying moment, Pollard thought the man might turn it against him.
Instead Zamora shoved it back in his waistband, spitting on the ground in disgust. “Stupid bitch,” he said. “I just blew that lady to hell. What made you think I wouldn’t shoot you?”
He turned to Pollard, mistaking his fearful inaction for complicity. “Come on,” he said, already grabbing the girl’s feet. She was still moving, tragic sounds coming from the wound in her throat. “Help me drag her body out of sight.” He looked up and grinned. “Like it or not, we’re on the same team now, amigo.”
CHAPTER 38
Zamora lay naked, facedown on the padded massage table in his motor home with a cell phone pressed to his ear. The soles of his feet were on fire, but luckily there appeared to be nothing broken, no long-term damage.
The shorter of the gap-toothed twins worked on the small of his back and the taller kneaded the knots out of his calves. The familiar buzzing of Lourdes Garcia’s angry voice helped to chase away memories of his beating at the hands of the Chechens. He found that he missed her more than he’d imagined and could almost smell the familiar burned-sugar odor she got when she was mad.
“I want to punch this boohooing woman in the face,” Lourdes said. “She is so weak… and the awful little baby… I cannot stand to look at it.”
“And you say I get into moods, my darling,” Zamora said. His voice shook as the twins began to beat on his back. “Let Jorge and Pete watch them and you relax.”
“I cannot relax with the worm squealing his face off every five minutes,” Lourdes snapped. “Have you forgotten me completely? The men you assigned here are pathetic. Pete does little but sit in his chair and tell her nasty jokes when he is not playing video games. He is like a stupid teenager — and do not get me started on the whining Jorge. He is useless. I can no longer trust him. He even gave the bawling worm some of my chocolate milk. Can you imagine?”
Zamora smiled to himself. Beautiful, crazy Lourdes, she was passionate about so many things. He would have to give her some little something to appease her or risk a mutiny.
“I believe it is time for you to make a statement, my darling.”
“What do you mean?” She paused her rant to listen.
“Send Jorge and Pete to buy ten bags of cat litter. When they return, have them dig a grave some distance from the house — large and deep enough to hide the bodies of a mother and child.”
“Then I will be alone with the woman and her worm while they work,” Lourdes said, sounding almost giddy. “That will probably scare her to death.”
“Now, now,” Zamora said. “We need them alive for the moment, remember?”
“I know,” she said. “I hate it, but I understand.”
“I promise you, my love,” Zamora said. “When you see what I have in mind, you will find it so very entertaining.”
He ended the call and summoned Monagas with a snap of his fingers.
His face pressed against the cool leather bed, he watched through sleepy eyes as his faithful companion ushered in Fabian, one of the mechanics.
“How long have you been with me, my friend?” Zamora’s voice was muffled against the table.
“Four years, patrón.” The man’s knees shook.
“Four years…”
The gap-toothed twin used her fists to beat the muscles of Zamora’s back like a drum.
He groaned as the days of tension began to bleed from him. “You would think that would be long enough to know me… ”
The mechanic stood quietly, twisting a ball cap in his hands.
“Have I not treated you well?”
“Very well, patrón.”
“I think so as well,” Zamora said, languidly twisting his neck as the short twin continued with her work down his spine. “That is why I am so distraught at your actions.”
“I beg your pardon, patrón?” Fabian’s teeth chattered as he spoke.
“It had to be you, my friend,” Zamora said. “No one else had access to the motorcycle and my road book.”
“What?”
Zamora cocked his head. “Monagas, I believe Fabian is having some trouble hearing me.”
The mechanic shrieked as Monagas stepped up behind him and sliced off his ear. The gap-toothed twin, numb to such things, continued to knead Zamora’s buttocks without so much as a flinch.
Zamora held out his hand, taking the bloody ear and holding it up to his mouth.
“Can you hear me now, my friend?”
“They have my family, patrón,” the man sobbed. “What was I to do?”
“Well,” Zamora said, “certainly not what you did. What else does Rustam Daudov have planned?”
“He says you have a bomb, and he wants it for himself.”
“I know what he wants,” Zamora hissed into the ear. “I asked you what he has planned.”
“I do not know, patron,” Fabian sobbed. “I swear it. He did not tell me.”