Callahan shrugged. “Maybe not,” she said. “I thought it might get you to spill something useful about your friend John . . . What was his name again? I know he’s gone off the reservation—and when this is over, it’ll be my job to stop him. Our job, really.”
“Nice try,” Caruso said. “I need to hit the restroom. If the waitress comes back while I’m gone, order me a bone-in ribeye, medium rare, and broccoli.”
Callahan nodded, eyeing the last roll. “Are you gonna eat that?”
? ? ?
The restrooms were to the right, but Dominic Caruso turned left, heading for the front door. There were several emergency exits, but there was only one public entrance to the restaurant, and he’d made sure he had a table that watched the door. It wasn’t likely, but anyone who was bound and determined to kill Callahan might decide to come in through the kitchen. Caruso decided he’d do a quick check of the parking lot to look for anything out of the ordinary. Their waitress caught him as he was walking past a big barrel of peanuts in an alcove just inside the front door.
“Everything all right, hon?” the young woman with wide hips and a black ponytail asked.
Caruso held up the keys to the Expedition. “I forgot something in the car,” he said. “I think my friend could use some more hot rolls, though.”
The cowbell on the front door clanged, and Caruso saw the reflections of two men in the plate-glass window as they entered behind him. The waitress said something about getting the rolls for Callahan, but Dominic stopped listening as soon as he saw the Santa Muerte tattoo on the reflection of the man in the lead. He was short and stocky, with the brim of a tattered denim baseball cap pulled low over a flat nose. The man behind him was taller and staggered a little, like he might have had a bit too much to drink. Both wore their shirttails untucked—a convenient way to hide handguns.
Caruso kept his back to the men and his head down.
“It’s a forty-five-minute wait,” the hostess told the two men, obviously hoping to persuade the shady newcomers to go somewhere else.
“That’s okay,” the man with the flat nose said. “We’re meeting friends. We’ll find them.”
Caruso waited for both men to walk past before holding a finger to his lips so the waitress could see. When they were out of earshot, he leaned in and said, “I’m FBI, call nine-one-one and tell them there are federal agents on scene.”
“What—”
“Do it now!” Caruso hissed. He reached inside his shirt collar to pull out a gold FBI badge, letting it hang from a chain around his neck. Ahead of him, the men worked their way around the bar area, stopping to look at each booth as they went by. Callahan was on the other side of the restaurant, short enough that she was hidden behind a high wooden barrier. Caruso had taken the gunfighter seat, so her back was to the door. He estimated the men would be on top of her in less than a half a minute.
He rested his right hand on the .40-caliber Glock 22 in the holster under his jacket. There was no way to know how many off-duty cops were in the restaurant. He didn’t want to draw the pistol too early, for fear of a blue-on-blue shooting. He took out his cell phone with his left hand, glancing down just long enough to punch in Callahan’s number.
It went immediately to voice mail.
Caruso cursed under his breath.
Thirty feet ahead, the guy with the flat nose motioned to his partner, who had stopped to watch a soccer game above the bar. The taller man shrugged, swayed on his feet a little, and then the two men turned down the row of booths where Callahan sat. She was in the back corner, the one that had given Caruso the wall—which meant that they’d get to her last. But it also meant she wouldn’t see them until they were almost in her lap.
Caruso took slow breaths, planning his next move. The wall beyond the two bad guys made for a decent enough backstop. But the booths on either side were packed with people. A little boy climbed in and out of the booth where his parents sat, and chased crayons that rolled across the floor. Caruso was an excellent shot, but little kids were like quicksilver in their ability to dart into the line of fire.
The two guys from Santa Muerte were five paces away now, so intently focused on what they’d figured out had to be Callahan’s booth that they didn’t bother to look behind them. The taller one was now in the lead.
Caruso picked up his speed, closing the distance in moments. He could sweep his jacket, draw, and fire two rounds from the Glock in a hair under one second. But the men were both armed, and stacked one in front of the other. He’d have to shoot more than twice, and those would have to be head shots.
Caruso’s hand closed around the grip of his Glock when the tall guy and Flat Nose were four steps from the booth. He shouted, “FBI!” at exactly the same moment a teenage boy to his right slid into the aisle to block his path.
The Santa Muerte soldiers spun, dragging pistols from under their shirts.
Caruso grabbed the teenager with his left hand and shoved him sideways, out of the line of fire, while he brought the Glock up. The startled kid had no idea what was going on and fought back, infuriated that Caruso would lay hands on him. He grabbed at the table in an effort to push himself up, screaming bloody murder. Caruso pulled the gun back to keep the kid from knocking it out of his hand—or accidentally eating the barrel.
36
Bonnie Porcaro had just taken a bite of her medium-rare ribeye when she heard what sounded like a very angry man in the aisle behind her booth. A petite blond woman in her mid-sixties, she had grown up in Harlingen, which was just about as close as one could get to Mexico and still be in Texas. She hadn’t been back to her hometown in more than twenty years, but she still understood enough Spanish to know what a man behind her had whispered.
“Time to kill the whore.”
That just wasn’t something good men said, even if they were joking. The slurred tone of his gravel voice told Bonnie this man was deadly serious.
Her husband, Mike, sat across from her. He started to say something, but she raised her hand, shushing him. They’d been married more than four decades and he knew all too well when she was serious. At the same time, Bonnie Porcaro reached beneath the table with her right hand and drew a stainless-steel Kimber K6s .357 revolver from a simple pancake holster under her vest. The vest was stylish lightweight cotton and suited a woman of her age. It also did a nice job of hiding her sidearm—which she was seldom without.