“Our guest of honor,” Tito said to Armando. “How nice of you to finally arrive.”
“I brought some friends,” he replied, indicating his weapons.
Tito laughed a big, fake laugh.
“Your brother laughed like that,” Armando said.
Tito went quiet with anger, but the more telling reaction came from the light-haired boy. His entire body tensed. He squinted at Armando with hate-filled eyes. With a start, Armando realized he was Memo’s son. They’d called him Güero. He’d been ten or eleven when Armando killed his father. Now he was a teenager, like Sarai.
“My brother will see you in hell,” Tito said.
“I want to end this peacefully,” Armando replied, laying down his weapons.
“I decide how we end this. Not you.”
Armando had no interest in firing at two boys while Sarai’s life hung in the balance. “Let my daughter go, and I won’t fight you. We can conclude our business however you like.”
“No,” she screamed, struggling to free her wrists.
Memo’s son backhanded her for the outburst. She went quiet, seeming shocked by the blow. Armando felt as if he’d been struck instead of her. He struggled against the urge to pick up the rifle and shoot the kid out of his fucking shoes.
Sarai spat at the boy like a wildcat. When Güero drew back his arm to repeat the action, Agent Foster head-butted him in the stomach. Güero went down on his ass, taking Foster with him. They rolled across the dirt together in a dusty tumble.
“Enough!” Tito roared.
Güero disentangled himself from Foster and scrambled to his feet. He kicked Foster in the ribs as a parting shot.
“Send Sarai away with the gringo,” Armando said. “You want me, not them.”
“Who is he?”
Armando chose his words carefully. Sarai needed someone to protect her. Foster was strong enough to get her to safety. And Maria loved him, so maybe he was worth saving. “He’s nobody. Just a private investigator I hired to find her.”
Tito considered this information. A private investigator wasn’t a threat to him or the cartel. Tito pulled Foster to his feet and cut the rope at his wrists. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said in English. “You come back, you die.”
Foster didn’t waste any time. He took Sarai by the arm and started dragging her away. She refused to cooperate, predictably. Even with her hands bound, she was difficult to manage. She started wailing and kicking his shins. He had to pick her up and haul her over his shoulder. Her screams echoed through the canyon as he carried her to safety.
“She takes after her mother,” Tito said.
Armando let the comment pass. There was nothing Tito could do to him that hurt more than watching his daughter suffer. He removed his jacket before he walked down the hill. When he reached Tito, he sank to his knees, awaiting execution.
Tito surprised Armando by stepping back. He gestured for Güero to come forward. The boy traded the rifle for the handgun and moved in front of Armando. He tugged the bandanna down to his neck and pointed the gun at Armando’s head.
“Don’t make him do it,” Armando said to Tito. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“He wants to do it,” Tito said.
“You killed my father,” Güero said. “You shot him on our front doorstep.”
“He killed my wife,” Armando ground out.
Güero stared at him with pale brown eyes that matched his hair. “No, he didn’t. He wasn’t even involved.”
Armando refused to believe this. The three men he’d assassinated were guilty. They were all ruthless cartel members. He’d collected information from very reliable sources. He’d been thorough and diligent in his quest for vengeance.
“It was me,” Tito said.
Armando jerked his head toward Tito. “What?”
“It was me, not Memo. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I was there. I grabbed your wife and tied her up. She was wearing a pink dress.” He kissed his fingertips in appreciation. “Guapísima.”
A wave of red-hot fury washed over him, like fresh blood. He didn’t want to die anymore. He wanted to kill. He wanted to kill them all. He wanted to fight and rage and tear off limbs with his bare hands. He shouldn’t have surrendered.
Armando returned his gaze to Güero. The boy was sweating profusely, vibrating with intensity. His eyes swam with tears. This was the most critical moment of his young life. He’d been dreaming about it, planning for it, awaiting it with sick anticipation.
That made two of them.
Perhaps Armando had killed the boy’s father by mistake. He didn’t feel good about that, but it was done. Memo Maldives hadn’t been an innocent man by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been a top member of Los Rojos, a hardened criminal who’d committed dozens of atrocities. His son would follow in those footsteps. Armando entertained a brief fantasy about grabbing Güero’s weapon and shooting his way to freedom.
But what about Sarai?
Even if Armando managed to escape this bloodbath, he’d never be free. There would be more Los Rojos members. More brothers and uncles and sons and daughters. More death and pain. As long as Armando was alive, Sarai would never be safe.
This had to end.
He took a deep breath, letting go of his anger. Letting go of vengeance. Dying here felt right. Sacrificing his life for Sarai felt right. If he could reunite with Alma, he’d welcome his fate with open arms. Unfortunately, that wasn’t in the cards. He didn’t believe in salvation for someone like him. A murderer who’d shot the wrong man couldn’t be redeemed.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Güero, meeting his eyes.
The boy seemed infuriated by his apology. The gun shook in his grip. His breathing was labored, nostrils flared. “You’re sorry? You think that makes any fucking difference to me? You think you can apologize and walk away?”
Armando shook his head. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Fuck you!”