Bella clenched her fists and tried to command her rational mind to control her emotions, but she couldn't stop thinking about Diego Vargas and his unspeakable brutality. This girl's testimony would be enough to put the monster away for a very long time. And Bella intended to see that happen.
Santos made the flight from Sacramento International Airport to LAX in a little over an hour. Two Norteños picked him up at the airport and left him with a Ford Explorer rental.
Forty minutes later he waited impatiently for the inside man to make the prearranged appointment on the Terminal Island side of the Vincent Thomas Bridge. Santos remained in the Explorer even when he saw the contact pull up to the parking area in an unmarked squad car, and he remained there until the man slipped into the passenger seat of the Explorer.
Santos looked at the tip of his cigarillo as he blew the smoke slowly out his nostrils. "You are late," he said after a few moments.
"Couldn't be helped." The man kept his wraparound sunglasses fixed on his face so his eyes could not be seen, but Santos recognized the edginess, the restless legs, and the wandering hands – all signs of discomfort. What did the man have to be nervous about?
"El Árabe thinks there is a leak from the Los Angeles area," Santos said.
"Don't call him that," the man snapped. "He's as American as me. More than you, my south-of-the-border friend."
Santos let the offense slip by. After all, he did not intend for this American to be around very much longer. When his usefulness ended, he would disappear. Already the man's value to Vargas' organization was questionable.
"So why the all-fired hurry for a meet?" the contact asked.
"El Vaquero is not happy that the information you have been sending us is tardy."
"Like I give a fuck how Vargas feels."
"Caution, mi amigo impetuoso, you should take great care about what Diego thinks."
The man cracked his neck, twisting it one way, then the other. "Tell him I've got it covered."
"He will want to know the details."
"I'm going up north to Sacramento."
Santos raised both eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Yeah, I've got a connection there."
"Bueno." Santos placed a large paw on the man's shoulder. "Diego will be very happy, and when the boss is pleased, he rewards handsomely."
The attack on the safe house occurred shortly after three o'clock in the morning.
While Bella had gone to her office to prepare her case against Vargas, Rafe had driven north to investigate the possible leak in the Nevada County Sheriff's Department. He also made some confidential calls regarding his own department.
At the safe house, Slater assigned the first shift – Ruiz to the front door, McKidd and Harris to the back, while he stretched out on a cot in the hall by Esperanza's bedroom door. He could hear the girl moving around in the room, the squeaking of the bed springs and then the flushing of the toilet.
He imagined she wasn't going to sleep very well tonight. He'd have to make long-range plans to protect her. Moving her around seemed the best security until the trial ended. And with Vargas' long reach, who knew how long that could take?
Slater must've dosed off because a foreign sound, the dull clank of metal on wood flickered through his subconscious and brought him springing to full alert. He reached for his handgun lying on the floor, and slipped it out of the holster as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. As he stood, he quietly turned the knob on the girl's bedroom.
She lay quietly under a pile of blankets, black strands of hair the only thing he could see from his angle. He eased the door shut, and clinging to the wall, traced his steps back through the great room to the patio window. He saw Harris' broad frame silhouetted against the pale glow of the moon, but McKidd wasn't in sight.
Soundlessly Harris hunched over, weapon in hand. Slater still couldn't see anything, but obviously something had drawn the deputy's attention. Slater strained to see what had alerted Harris, holding his breath, tightening his grip on his weapon.
Where the hell was McKidd?
Focused on the scene in the back entry, Slater didn't hear the front door open until a floorboard suddenly creaked behind him. He swung around, raised his weapon to fire, and aimed at a large, dark shadow lurching toward him. But he wasn't fast enough and all hell broke loose.
Slater took the first bullet high in the chest, the pain of it searing through his muscle and shattering his clavicle. He got a round off before he was spun around from the impact, but it went astray. The second bullet caught him low in the back and he wondered briefly if it would paralyze him. The third one sank deep into his thigh.
At the sound of the first report, Harris flew through the back patio door, crouching low, aiming his weapon, and firing like a madman. The first intruder went down with a shot to the head and one to the chest, but the second one managed to hit Harris in his upper thigh, close to the groin. He went crashing down like a felled buffalo, his handgun skittering across the floor.
A third intruder entered from the front landing and ran down the hallway.
No, Slater screamed silently, feeling his blood drain steadily onto the hardwood floor, knowing he was helpless to keep the attacker from reaching the girl. Shivers started to rack his body, his skin felt clammy, and his mouth was parched. He recognized his body going into shock.
As the second shooter advanced on the defenseless Harris, Slater panted shallowly and tried to scrabble out of the way, reaching for his backup weapon. But he was too weak and his arm flopped uselessly at his ankle.
He clamped his chattering teeth together and made a last-ditch effort. He hardly felt the weapon leave its holster, but suddenly the grip was solid and warm against his clammy palm.
The second hitter loomed over Harris, lifting his gun for the head shot, when Slater's bullet took out the back of the man's skull. Harris lay sprawled on his back, bleeding profusely from his leg. An artery? Even knowing there was nothing he could do, Slater tried to crawl toward his deputy.
The girl's screaming penetrated the roar in his head. She raced out of the bedroom into the hall and ran smack into the third hitter. Slater saw Harris' fingers jerk faintly in an attempt to reach his discarded weapon.
At that moment, another figure entered through the glass patio door behind Harris. Slater opened his mouth in warning, but no sound came out. A hard blow to the back of Harris' head with the butt of a semi-automatic rifle and all movement stopped.
God, Slater thought, they were all going to die here. Now.
Right before he passed out, he glimpsed the round sweating face of Manuel Ruiz as it twisted into something vicious with satisfaction while he loomed over the fallen Harris.
God, Manuel Ruiz, a traitor in his own house!
Ruiz placed his heel on Harris' chest, aimed the barrel at his skull as Slater's eyes fluttered shut. From a distance he heard the faint jumble of words:
"¡No! Qué – haciendo – " and a muffled response "El Jefe dice – " followed by a final blast of gunfire.
His last thought before he lost consciousness was, Thank God Bella wasn't here.
"Slater, Slater, can you hear me?"
Bella's pretty face, worried and damp with tears, floated in front of Slater's eyes as he opened them.
"Esperanza?" he moaned. "Is she alive?" His voice petered off into the creaky sound of an old man and he tried again. "Did they get her?"
Bella shook her head. "Let's just worry about you right now."
He felt the motion of the gurney beneath him as she placed her hand on his cheek. "What happened? Christ, is everyone dead?"