Chapter Five
His motorcycle slewed sideways as Santos spun into the trailer park. He wondered how he would find Rose in the maze of narrow streets, then the furious echo of flying bullets reached his ears, the sound hitting him as painfully as if the real thing had. In his rearview mirror, a pair of headlights loomed large. He had passed the truck a few miles back, and now he felt his bike bounce as the truck’s bumper connected with his. Wrenching the handlebars to his right, he was an inch away from going off the road when he wrestled the motorcycle under control. The truck flew by, and once more, Kingson Landry’s clenched face stared back at him. He should have been happy to have the backup, but for reasons he didn’t want to examine, the presence of the deputy rubbed him the wrong way.
His reaction had nothing to do with the son-of-a-bitch almost running him off the road—and everything to do with Rose.
He spotted her cruiser, the driver’s door open. All the porch lights in the neighborhood were blazing, and the scene was lit up like daytime. A second later, he saw the leaning water tank. Rose was stretched out on the ground beside it, and two men loomed over her, lifting their heads as the bike and the truck barreled toward them. Each held a weapon, one man’s an automatic, the other a pistol. Before his years of training could kick in, he felt a flash of panic at the sight, his heart stopping in mid-beat. When it started again, the roar of his pulse was as loud as the Harley. As he sped forward, the two men looked at each other in horror then fled, vanishing into the darkness.
The dualie slid to the left, bounced over the ditch, and stopped three feet from where Rose lay. She waved an arm as the deputy fell out the truck’s open door and raced to her side, forcing her back to the ground and covering her with his body. Confirming she was okay, Santos blew past them and headed down the rutted street in the direction the men had gone.
He was going almost sixty when the first man darted out from the shadow of a nearby trailer. Moments later, the second one flew out. Concentrating on getting away, the shooter jumped directly into the Harley’s path. Swerving wildly, Santos almost lost control of the bike for the second time that night. In a second that felt like an hour, he met the man’s gaze just before the Harley thumped over him. Instead of the alarm he expected, the thug’s eyes held something that strangely resembled relief. The only reason he would feel that way was if someone else had sent him to do his dirty work, whatever it was. He would rather be dead than go back and be held accountable for failing, Santos realized instantly. Either way the outcome would be the same—he’d die. At least this way would be quicker and less painful.
Santos brought the bike to a stop, a cloud of gravel swirling around him like a mini tornado. With his gun gripped between his hands, he ran toward the motionless body in the middle of the road and dropped to his knees, pressing two fingers against the gang member’s neck.
He had gotten his wish; he was as dead as dead could be. Pivoting quickly, Santos jumped back on the motorcycle and continued in the direction the other man had taken, but he was nowhere in sight.
He circled the trailer park three more times to make sure. Finally he returned to the front of the park where King Landry was trying to hold Rose’s elbow. She jerked her arm away. “Stop fussing with me, King. I’m not hurt.”
“Damn it, Rosie, just let me help you—”
Rosie?
Santos swung off his cycle and strode straight to Rose. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, good grief—I’m fine.”
King sent out a beefy arm. “Hold up there, buddy—”
Santos wanted to punch the deputy to the ground, but he settled for thrusting the man’s arm to the side. “Get the hell out of my way.”
He was prepared when King pushed back. He grabbed the lawman’s wrist and started to twist it behind his back.
“For God’s sake.” Rose hobbled forward, stepping between them, her expression disgusted. “Stop it, King. Just calm down.” Her gaze went to Santos. “You, too, Sa—Sam.”
King’s eyebrows shot up, his expression confused. “You know this guy?”
Santos glared and didn’t move. King stayed where he was and did the same.
“Yes, I know him,” Rose said. “He’s an old friend. And that’s all you need to know.” Ignoring the deputy’s sputters, she spoke to Santos again. “I take it they’re gone?”
“One got away.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder without taking his eyes from King’s. “The other’s back there.”
Rose pointed to his blood-splattered pants when he finally faced her. “Where did that come from?”
“He jumped in front of the bike—” Santos started.
Turning back to King, her orders were crisp, her description of the two men concise. “You know what to do. Go make the calls, and get an ambulance and a tow truck here, too. Get that report out before you do anything else.”
King eyed Santos then turned to Rose. “Do you really think that’s for the best?”
“Leave us alone, King. Go do what I told you to do, and let me handle this.”
The deputy stalked back to his truck. Keeping their weapons ready in case the other shooter came back, Santos and Rose carefully made their way to the rear of the park one more time, sweeping their stares over the shadows. They stopped beside the man in the street.
“How bad is he?” Rose threw a look at him. “I want to talk to this guy before he finds a lawyer—”
“That questioning thing’s not going to happen.” They’d reached the body, and he pointed to it with his gun. “Not unless you follow him to hell.”
…
The EMTs loaded the body into their ambulance then demanded Rose let them take her to the hospital. She refused, promising instead that she would check in with the urgent care clinic in Aqua Frio. A nurse came in twice a week and set up shop in the back of the drugstore. Everyone used her for their ailments. Santos’s actions upset her more than her ankle did, anyway.
King insisted on driving her back to the station in his truck, and he peppered her with questions about Santos all the way. She told him nothing. All she could think about was the expression on Santos’s face when he’d spotted her lying on the ground. He hadn’t been able to disguise his concern, and as silly as it sounded, she’d felt a rush of warmth. If he still had feelings for her…
The three of them entered the building as King sent Santos a silent message she could easily read: it wasn’t over between them. Leading Santos into her office, she closed the door and turned to him, hiding her earlier thoughts. “Did you have to kill the guy?”
“He cut in front of the bike. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to.”
Rose took a deep breath then winced. “I’m glad you were there, and I appreciate what you did. This is the second time you’ve ridden in to save the day. Talking to that guy would have been more helpful than planting him, though.”
“I tried to avoid him, but I couldn’t. End of story.”
The highway outside shimmered in the moonlight. In another few hours, a ray of heat would stab through the blinds as the sun rose over the mountaintops. The taste of dust was still in her mouth, and fear was there as well. She pulled the cord to lower them harder than she needed to, and banished the dark.
She turned back to Santos. “No, that’s not the end of the story. You’re involved now—King saw you, you ran over the guy, you have to give us a statement…”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“Then write the damned report yourself and bury it as deep as you can for now.” His intensity didn’t waver as he dropped his voice. “When this is all over, you can dig it up. In fact, I’ll put the handcuffs on myself and meet you at the courthouse.”
She hesitated. Santos was right to have done what he did. When an officer was under fire, like deserved like. At least the man had been a stranger, the name of a small-time gang inked on his back, a declaration of love written in Spanish to Concepción underneath a poor rendition of a woman’s face.
Rose wanted to say no to Santos’s solution, then she remembered the heat of the bullet that had flown past her face. Both of them knew she didn’t need rescuing; she could take care of herself. Between the budget cuts and the dangerous situation, though, she’d been grateful for the help.
Meeting his eyes, she saw a darkness she’d never seen before, his legendary disregard for danger as obvious as his concern had been earlier. Turning to her desk, she gave a curt nod. “Start talking.”
Two hours later, with his statement lying on her desk, Rose watched him walk out of her office and turn down the hallway. How could he look so damn good in threadbare jeans and a battered vest? She took a shaky breath as a delayed reaction swamped her. Something really bad was brewing in Rio County. Had Timothy Santos brought it with him, or was he really here to fix it? And what part did her mother play in all this, if any?
Rose was still sorting the tower of paperwork the episode generated when Lydia Gomez opened the office door and let in the morning light. The dispatcher’s forehead was wrinkled with worry, and her fingers were twisted before her. The tiny town’s gossip downloaded faster than any Internet connection could ever hope to be; she clearly knew what had happened during the night.
“Dios mio, Sheriff Rose. I’ve been worried like crazy. You need to go home. We will cover here. Por favor.”
Lydia had been running the phones—and the station—for years. She’d even worked for Rose’s grandfather before he’d retired. Caring for the officers came naturally to her. She had six children and twice as many grandchildren.
“I’m fine, Lydia.” She gently steered the older woman back to the front of the station. “You take care of the phones, and I’ll take care of everything else, okay?”
Rose talked to King about what to do next until Lydia finally threatened to call Silas. It was easier to go home to clean up and return, rather than fight the concerned woman. Her mind spinning, her body aching, she reached her house to find Santos waiting once again, this time on her back porch. Her mouth went dry as she stared at him.
He’d had a shower and changed clothes, his wet hair leaving streaks that looked like tears dampening his fresh t-shirt. His jawline was still dark with stubble, but he looked good and he smelled even better. He took one look at her tattered uniform and swelling wrists, and motioned for her to go inside. He followed her.
“Go get a couple of aspirins, then take a hot bath.” He guided her toward the hall. “You need to soak. We’ll put ice on your ankles as soon as you get out.”
To her surprise, her head began to spin, a mental and physical shakiness taking control of her body that almost made her doubt she’d get down the hall. Santos slid his hands over her forearms and steadied her, his touch arousing more than just memories.
“Do you need some help?”
She shook her head, took a breath, and headed for the back of the house. The kind of help she wanted from him right now would only make her dizzier.
She was still sitting in the tub when he knocked on the door and opened it slowly.
Their gaze met for a single moment. He let his stare slide down her body, then he brought it back up so slowly she felt as if he’d used his hands instead of his eyes. She didn’t bother to cover herself up, and she didn’t move, either. She was paralyzed. Without a word, he put a steaming cup of hot coffee on the edge of the tub, then stepped back, the door clicking behind him. The bath water rippled as she slipped beneath the surface and let the warmth envelop her. Her disappointment that he’d left her alone almost rivaled her knowledge that what he’d done was for the best.
She deliberately forced herself to think about what had just happened instead. She’d been in and out of tough situations before. Had even been forced to wound a fleeing suspect once, but she’d never been shot at like this.
She emerged wearing a faded track suit, the fabric soft against her aching body and thick enough to protect her from his gaze and his touch should either fall upon her again. He was standing by the wall of photos of her and her mother. Turning at her footsteps, he took in the scrape on her right temple, and she brushed her fingers over it self-consciously.
Determined to keep the interaction neutral, she lifted the mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“No problem.” He tilted his head to indicate his surroundings. “The place feels like you.”
“I’m renting it from Silas.”
He faced the wall of photos again. “I like these, too. You were a cute kid, you know.”
“I dragged them out when I moved here.”
“Why didn’t you hang them in our place?”
The words—our place—made her blink. “I didn’t think you’d want to see a picture of my mother every day.”
“I’ve never had a problem with your mother. It’s what she does and who she hangs out with that bothers me. Her friends aren’t the kind of people I like.”
Rose pivoted sharply and went into the kitchen.
When he spoke again, his voice was deep and close. Too close. She swayed as she turned. Grabbing the edge of the counter, she hoped he didn’t notice.
“This thing has gotten bigger, Rose. You can’t ignore what happened tonight.”
“If those men had wanted me dead, they could have shot me.”
“Just like that kid could have shot you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“If that’s what you think, then what’s your theory on why you aren’t in the morgue instead of standing here talking to me?”
“I don’t have one,” she admitted. “But I will once I start to investigate.”
He ran his hands through his hair and looked at her with disbelief. “You don’t have time to investigate, Rose, and my source doesn’t have time for that, either. If anyone finds out who I am and why I’m here, all three of us could end up dead. The guy I ran over had tatts from a drug cartel just over the border—”
“I know all about that gang. They stay out of my jurisdiction.”
“Did you see his weapon?”
“He was holding the barrel two inches from my nose. What do you think?”
“Ortega smuggles that same kind into Mexico. It’s his favorite product—he has them made at a maquiladora just this side of the border. No one but his ‘associates’ has them.”
Even in the heat of the moment, she’d realized the AR-15 looked different. The nasty- looking rifle had had a stainless steel barrel with some unreadable etchings, not to mention the fact that it had been modified to be a fully automatic weapon.
“You know as well as I do once those guns are in circulation, anyone can get them.”
“I’d bet next month’s salary that Ortega sent those two guys to that trailer park,” Santos insisted. “I’ve told you already I have it on good authority that he’s nearby, and that hasn’t changed.”
“And I’ve told you about Juan Enrique. King is following that lead, and we need to give him some time. Enrique could be behind those guys tonight, too.” Frustration deepened her frown. “He’s from here, and he knows the area well. There are plenty of locals who would do anything he asked of them. He may seem like a small fish to you, but he’s run a gang in Rio County ever since he was a teenager.”
“So why strike now? I’m telling you this is SOP when El Brujo wants to move into a new territory. Neutralize the local law enforcement—by bribery or violence—then do the same with the friendlies. Pretty soon, he’s the one in charge.”
“So that’s your theory on why I’m not dead?”
“It’s simple,” he explained. “If you were gone, someone else would take your place. He’d rather manipulate the situation as it stands now than start fresh with someone who might be worse than you. It’s easier to deal with a known than an unknown. If that doesn’t work, then he’ll kill you.”
Raising both his hands, Santos put them on her shoulders, and that’s when she realized she’d been wrong—the fabric wasn’t thick enough to keep her immune to his touch. His grip was as hard as his eyes. A shiver of alarm washed over her.
“And if I don’t back down?” she asked to distract herself.
“He’ll get you sooner or later—it’s inevitable. One night you’ll just disappear. They’ll grab you and torture you just for the helluva it, then he’ll kill everyone who’s left. Silas, a friend, maybe even your deputy. He’d kill your dog if you had one.” His expression turned so grim it frightened her. “He likes to chop off heads with machetes. I’ve seen it firsthand, Rose. This isn’t just a career choice for these guys—they enjoy this kind of crap. If you don’t believe me there’s a mass grave just the other side of the border I’ll show you if you have the stomach for it. There were twenty young girls in it—beautiful young girls. According to my sources, Ortega rounded them up to sell them in the sex trade, but his buyer decided he wanted redheads instead of brunettes. Instead of having their hair dyed, Ortega killed them and kidnapped twenty different girls.”
A horror so thick she could taste it welled up inside her.
“If you don’t help me,” Santos said, “you’re risking your own life—and the life of everyone who’s close to you.”