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John Clark had seen great evil in his life. He was no stranger to misery. He’d experienced unspeakable sadness and unbearable pain—in Vietnam, Eastern Europe, and hot spots around the world—but the worst of it, the incident that gutted him, had happened right here in the good old USA. Admiral James Greer had known the whole story, but he’d taken the secrets with him when he passed away. Sandy knew most of it, and she’d probably guessed the rest, though they never talked about it. Clark was able to suppress the memories for the most part—Pam Madden’s brutal murder and the vengeance he’d meted out against the pimps and drug dealers who’d done it. He dreamed of her sometimes still, not in a longing way as someone might pine for a lost love, but because he was so incredibly sorry that he’d not been there to save her. He was a former SEAL when they’d met, already entrenched in the ways of warfare and mayhem, but it was Pam’s death that pushed him into the instrument that he’d become. Knowing her, watching her turn her life around, and then seeing that life snuffed out, had changed him forever—and left a mark on his soul that could not be erased.
His hands shook with pent-up rage when he peered through the window into Naldo Cantu’s house and saw the girls. There were three of them curled into fetal positions and chained by their ankles to filthy mattresses on metal army cots. Two wore short baby-doll nightgowns; another wore nothing but a gray T-shirt and bore obvious track marks. She’d been there awhile. All three of the girls had ugly burns on their arms and legs. An overturned garbage can beside one of the cots revealed several used condoms, some syringes, and a wad of candy wrappers—probably all the girls had had to eat. He could make out two Hispanic men lounging on the couch in the adjacent room watching television and drinking beer. He didn’t have a view of the entire room, so there was a possibility of more men inside.
Memories of Pamela Madden and the men Clark had killed coursed through his veins. He fought the urge to rush in and shoot these men in the face. He didn’t care how many there were.
Caruso’s voice in his ear startled him—not an easy thing to do to John Clark.
“I’m not very familiar with Dallas. Any guess on our ETA?”
Callahan gave a muffled response that Clark couldn’t hear. There was the sound of car doors slamming, then Dom said, “I hear you . . . traffic like this we’ll be lucky to get there in twenty-five.”
Clark nodded at this new information. The girls would be safe soon enough, but he wanted to get his pound of flesh. Prison was too cushy for men like these. Clark backed away from the window and into the live oaks that surrounded the house. Midas met him there.
“How do you want to do this?” the former Delta soldier asked. “Drag them out and beat the hell out of them until they talk . . . then beat them some more after they talk?”
“You got a look inside?”
Midas gave a somber nod. “Through the living room window,” he said. “I counted three males, two on the couch, one in a recliner. Two handguns on the coffee table, but no long guns that I saw. I could only see one female through the open door from my vantage point, but she looked in pretty bad shape.”
“She is,” Clark said. “I counted three girls. Not sure about the other rooms.” He shook his head to clear it, willing himself to calm down and think. Rage would only blind him. In situations like this, he needed to be calculating and calm. He didn’t completely rule out killing an enemy inside the United States, but he’d try to avoid it if possible. These men had crucial intelligence. If he had to wait and let Caruso get it, then—
The sound of a screen door slamming pulled him out of his thoughts. There was laughter, and then someone said, “Cerveza . . .”
Gravel crunched. A car door slammed.
Midas smiled in the darkness. “Somebody’s going on a beer run!”
Clark spoke in a hoarse whisper, giving orders as he moved back toward the fence. “Jack, move to the east end of the road. Adara, you set up to the west.” Clark checked his watch. “Whichever way this guy turns, let him get down the road far enough they can’t see him from the house, then box him in. Cautious but quick. Keep in mind, we have about eighteen minutes to do what we need to do before we have to exfil.”
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Ninety seconds later, Ryan pulled the Dodge in front of a blue Subaru WRX and stepped on the brakes. The driver, a skinny Hispanic male, attempted to go around him, but Ryan put his foot on the gas and nosed the Dodge into the much lighter vehicle, shoving it back into Adara’s waiting pickup truck. The skinny kid’s eyes flew wide and he raised his hands as Ryan, Chavez, and Adara bailed out of their vehicles. All of them wore black balaclavas and pointed their pistols at his face.
“Damn it,” Sherman said as she yanked open the door while Chavez and Ryan covered her. “I was hoping you’d fight.”
They had him bagged and gagged and trussed in the back of Adara’s pickup by the time Midas and Clark rolled up with their lights off. Clark lowered his window and motioned for everyone to follow him back around the corner, just in case Special Agent Callahan and her crew showed up sooner than they thought they would.
The skinny kid said his name was Flaco. He started slinging snot and sobbing the moment Clark dragged him out of the truck and ripped the bag off his head. Clark shoved him into the ditch on the side of the road. He knelt there, pleading for his life. The sharp odor of urine filled the night air. It wasn’t surprising. If John Clark threw him in a ditch and pointed a gun at him, Ryan was pretty sure he’d lose control of his bladder, too.
Clark wore a balaclava as well, but there was enough hatred burning out of his eyes to make his intentions clear. He gave Flaco a brutal kick to the ribs, knocking him over, and then stepped on his neck.
“Okay, asshole,” Clark said. “You have exactly one chance to stop me from turning your head into bits of skull and goo. Answer my questions as I ask them to you. Don’t pause. Don’t beg for mercy. Just answer the questions. Do. You. Understand?” Clark bore down with the boot at each word, grinding the man’s face into the ground and muffling his reply.
“Yeeesss,” he said, sounding like a deflating tire.
“Who’s the top guy? Cantu?”
It turned out to be harder to get the tattooed gangbanger to shut up than it had been to get his car stopped.
“Cantu is boss of the girls around here,” Flaco said. “But Zambrano is the top guy in Texas. Everybody who runs girls gotta pay him.”
“Zambrano?” Clark said. “Same name as the Cubs pitcher?”
“Same name,” Flaco said. “Different dude. This one’s from Mexico.”
“Where is he?”
Flaco shook his head. “He’s everywhere, man. He moves all the time.”
Clark nodded. “How about Matarife?”
“That dude’s evil as shit, man,” Flaco said.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”