“Te voy a matar, hijo de puta,” he yells in Spanish. I’ll kill you, bastard. He pulls a gun out of his pocket and unlocks the safety. Without even thinking, I raise my gun and fire.
The stifled pop of my M4 fills the hallway. My bullet strikes him in the back of his head. The gun in his hand drops to the ground as his body falls forward, on top of Luke.
My feet pound down the hallway. No need to be quiet anymore. They know we’re here.
Luke pushes the man off of him, rolling him onto his back. The man’s mouth is open. His eyes stare. Blank. Dead. I reach for Luke’s hand, pulling him off the floor.
“Are you okay?” I brush Luke’s bruised cheek with my fingertips. He winces and pulls away. Embarrassed, I return my hand to my side. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m okay,” he says, taking my face in his hands and pulling it toward his until our foreheads touch. “Thank you for saving me.”
“You would have done the same,” I say and break out of our embrace. “Come on. They know we’re here. We don’t have much time.”
Broken glass from fallen picture frames crunches under our feet. The only bit of color in the entire hallway hangs at the other end. The sight of it makes my chest tighten. A large ornate cross covered in gold with large gemstones and diamonds in the center. Inscribed in a gold plate above the cross are the words Sigue a Dios. The fire inside me rages hotter. Beat, torture, murder … then hide behind the cross.
Luke stops and stares at the plaque next to me. “Follow God,” I say, reading the inscription again. I grab the cross off the wall and slam it down with so much force, it shatters. Pieces of gold and rubies and diamonds scatter across the hardwood floor. I tear the plaque off the wall and throw it as far as I can. It lands near the guest room with a clang and slides toward the pool of blood near the dead guard’s head.
I point my gun down the dark hallway toward the basement door. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I can feel his presence, sense his evil. I know he’s on the other side of that door. I just pray my mother is with him and still alive.
THIRTY-ONE
The basement is dark and quiet. It feels fifteen degrees colder than the rest of the house and the sudden change in temperature makes my skin throb.
Luke and I creep through the massive media room with plush leather chairs, a popcorn machine in the corner, and movie posters on the wall. Scarface hangs in the center. Way to be a walking cliché, Torres.
Luke points to an open door ahead. We both push our backs up against the wall and the textured gray wallpaper rubs against our gear with each step. We pause once our feet touch the door frame and listen for any sound on the other side. Nothing. I whip my body around the door and point my gun inside. A wine cellar. Thousands of bottles line the walls and a large table sits in the center with three wineglasses at every seat. This man lives very well. Running a drug enterprise is certainly more lucrative than being a Black Angel.
I give Luke the all clear and wave him forward, and that’s when I see it. A closed door at the south end of the basement. According to the house plans, this is an unfinished storage space. A million pins prick my skin. I know she’s in there, I can feel her. I nod toward the door and Luke’s blue eyes widen.
The door feels cold and thick as I press my ear to it, hoping to hear something on the other side. There’s a rustling and the clanging of metal, then a man speaking in Spanish followed by a woman’s voice.
“Stop,” she says. “Please, stop.”
My heart is beating so loud now it drowns out the sounds on the other side. But I know that voice.
“It’s her,” I mouth to Luke. I gently test the doorknob. Locked. “Kick it in.”
He takes two steps back as I ready my weapon, waiting to fire at Torres on the other side.
Luke counts down with his fingers. Five, four, three, two, one. I suck in a breath.
Boom. The door frame cracks as Luke smashes his foot against it, sending it crashing against the storage room wall.
I run into the room, my gun pointed in front of me, my trigger finger ready to shoot. And there in the corner, with a long, rusty chain wrapped around her wrist, is my nearly unrecognizable mother. Her cheek is purple, her arms slashed, blood dripping from her broken nose. Her white tank top and underwear are crusted with old blood as she lies on a dirty mattress on the floor. Behind her, with his back pressed up against the cinder-block wall is Torres, salt-and-pepper goatee, dark eyes, and thick, graying hair, holding a shiny pistol to my mother’s head.
Mom looks at me, half terrified and half numb as she yanks at the choke hold Torres has on her neck. I point my weapon straight at his head. I want to pull the trigger but I don’t have a clear shot. He’s so close to Mom and they’re both thrashing around. A half an inch off, and she’ll meet the end of my bullet. It’s too risky.
“It’s over, Torres,” I say, my voice fighting to stay steady. “Let her go.”