“He calls me,” she said. “Not the other way around. He is a very careful man.”
“Let’s say you needed to tell him something important,” Clark said. “Where would you start?”
“He will come back home, eventually. Probably not for a few days, though. I like it when he is away.”
“I’m sure,” Clark said. “Who would know where to find him?”
Lupe raised her hands again. Grinning stupidly, thinking she’d use her body since it had served her in the past, she kicked upward, bringing her breasts above the surface. “Search me, se?or.”
Clark sent another round zipping into the pool, inches away. The smile bled from her face.
“Last time I ask,” Clark said. “How do I find Zambrano?”
She spat into the water, then wiped a hand across her face. “I am telling you I do not know,” she said.
“Then you’re no good to me—”
“Wait,” the woman said. She was accustomed to being threatened but smart enough to hear the hard edge of resolve in Clark’s voice. “Dorian. Dorian would know how to reach him. They do business sometimes.”
“Dorian?”
“He gets girls from South America . . . and other places. People trust him because he looks handsome and kind, like a model from a magazine.”
She gave him the location of a hotel in Fort Worth that Dorian frequented, then described him. Clark committed it to memory, deciding on his next move. He needed to find out what she knew about Vincent Chen, but he wanted to check inside first.
“Who else is in the house?”
Lupe pushed a lock of wet hair from her face, black eyes casting back and forth for any avenue of escape, a cornered she-wolf—except wolves had souls. “There are two girls,” she said. “Matarife’s prisoners. Take them. They are yours.”
Clark slipped the Glock in the belt scabbard long enough to climb the fence behind the pool house, drawing it again as soon as his feet hit the grass.
The day was heating up and a steady breeze blew the odor of chlorine into his face. He motioned with the Glock for the woman to get out of the pool. She had several scars, at least two of them bullet wounds in her torso. It was difficult to tell where the bruises ended and tattoos began, and still, there was a nasty defiance about the woman that made it hard to feel sorry for her.
Focused on the gun barrel, she didn’t really look at him until she’d hauled herself up the aluminum ladder and stood naked and dripping on the concrete deck. She rolled her eyes when she saw him.
“You are old . . .”
“I am,” Clark said. He nodded to the folded terry-cloth robe beside what looked like a rawhide quirt. It was exactly the right size to have caused the bruises on the dead girls.
Clark ordered the woman to kick the robe to him. He prodded it with his toe and kicked it back to her once he felt sure it didn’t contain any weapons.
“Here,” Clark said, then nodded toward the house. “Put that on and we’ll go have a talk with those girls.”
She reached to pick up the robe, but instead of putting it on, she threw it in Clark’s face, shrieking and clawing as she launched herself toward him.
Even Clark, who prided himself on situational awareness, was caught off guard. The sheer insanity of the move made it effective, and the naked, spitting woman was able to knock the pistol out of the way a fraction of a second before he could get off an accurate shot. Flying at him like a crazed banshee, Lupe tied him up in wet arms and legs. Her teeth sank deep into his shoulder, causing him to stagger toward the pool. He tried desperately to peel her away, bashing at the side of her head with his free hand—but she seemed impervious to his blows. She was short in stature, but Lupe was not a light woman, probably only a few pounds lighter than Clark. And she possessed the strength of a cornered animal who knew she had to kill or be killed.
Clark regained his footing but realized she was trying to pull him into the pool. No doubt she believed she would be able to take care of the old man once and for all in the deep water.
He decided to give her what she wanted.
The pool was just three short steps away. Clark took a couple deep breaths as they toppled over, grabbing the fleshy woman around the ribs and squeezing out as much air as he could an instant before they hit the water in a tangled knot of furious bottom bitch and gray-haired former SEAL.
Lupe ramped up her assault with a vengeance, disengaging just enough to get a hand up to claw at Clark’s face when they went under. He turned his head in time to avoid her nails, trapping her hand and giving her a vicious head-butt. Blood trailed from her nose. Bubbles erupted in a muffled scream of rage.
Clark had fought underwater before, in training—and in the cold grip of real-world situations. The water was his home.
Kicking downward, he drove the writhing woman to the bottom of the pool, hearing the high-pitched whine as his ears equalized to the increased pressure. Another furious shriek escaped Lupe’s lips. This one was smaller than the last, producing only a tiny blossom of bubbles. She gave a halfhearted twist in a last-ditch effort to get away—and then fell limp in his arms.
Clark counted down another twenty seconds—long enough to make sure she wasn’t pretending. He had at least another minute in him when he let his natural buoyancy carry them upward, taking an easy breath when he broke the surface. He glanced toward the house, making sure no one was waiting to give him a nasty reception, and then rolled onto his back, hauling the unconscious woman in a modified rescue tow to the side.
Lupe regained consciousness the moment they reached the edge, animating with a fury as if under some voodoo spell. She ducked her chin, sinking her teeth into his forearm, surely aiming for bone. Clark’s shoulder caught hard against the concrete edge of the pool, sending even more pain through his body.
“Enough!” he roared. Images of the dead girls in the field, strangled and whipped, mixed in his mind with awful memories of Pam Madden’s tortured face in the morgue. He reached for a gun—either one, it didn’t matter. His hand closed around the grip of the Glock and he brought it around quickly, ending Lupe’s reign of cruelty with a point-blank shot to her neck.
Breathing hard now, as much from pain as exertion, Clark pushed the woman away and pressed himself up to the pool deck. He leaned forward, one hand on a knee, the other trailing the Glock by his side.
“I am old.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “But an old SEAL still loves the water . . .”
Any death was tragic, and watching Lupe’s body float facedown in the pool, Clark felt a certain amount of remorse about killing her. But ten minutes later, after he’d freed the two cowering teenagers chained to five-gallon buckets of concrete—and then walked through a tall red door to watch even a few seconds of the horrific videos—he wanted to go outside and shoot her again.
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