Bond of Darkness (15 page)

Like hell!

No sense of honor, nor of justice.

She tossed the leather onto her shoulder and shoved her way out the door, barely pausing to pick up her purse and keys.

The jacket, chaps, and boots, which Ethan said marked her as his woman were going to hell. She'd found a commercial waste incinerator, which would reduce them to flakes of ash.

And she'd forget all about how she'd thought he was the only man she could trust outside the office.

Even the lowest worm didn't deserve a death like the one Ethan had just dealt.

ACAPULCO. THE SAME NIGHT

Georges Devol folded his fingers around his brandy snifter, keeping his expression politely attentive. Much as he hated to admit it, even tequila would have tasted better than this overpriced Californian nonsense.

And a dying prosaica would undoubtedly sound more interesting than this greedy fool's demands for more money. Her blood and fear would definitely taste better than the brandy or the tequila.

A warm tropical breeze crept through the palm fronds and bougainvillaea, rich with salt air. The heavy chandelier overhead swayed gently, its flickering light and heat bringing to life their leather furniture's soft scents.

Georges smiled slowly and swirled the golden liqueur, allowing himself to anticipate his future reward. Soon, he could claim one of the foolish American tourists and teach her the true meaning of terror.

Just as soon as he finished closing this deal for
cher madame
.

El Gallinazo eyed him wearily and steepled his fingers. Where did he buy his wardrobe—Hollywood? "Two million dollars," he pronounced.

Georges raised an eyebrow at him. Who the hell did he think he was dealing with, a cachorro? That opening demand was so absurdly high as to be hardly worth responding to.

"Per man," the greedy pig added.

A split second later, Georges's fist was wrapped in the fool's collar and the idiot's face was turning an unbecoming shade of red.

A bodyguard took a hasty step forward from the patio's other end and found himself facing the business end of Georges's Beretta. He held up his empty hands and retreated, eyes constantly reevaluating the situation. A very smart man and one worth recruiting.

"One million—total," Georges corrected El Gallinazo very gently.

His captive made a series of noises which didn't amount to words.

Georges shook him. Hard. Mexico had obviously gone far too long without any competent patrones, if prosaicos had been allowed to grow this stupid.

El Gallinazo's head snapped back and forth, his eyes crossing like a child's doll, before his eyelids veiled them.

Georges watted patiently for the prosaico to speak. If he didn't, his corpse would become an excellent incentive for his successor's cooperation.

Black eyes opened, filled with hate.

"Agree?" Georges asked, totally unmoved by the other's opinion.

"Yes," the fool rasped and was dropped back into his seat.

Georges emptied his snifter into the shrubbery and sauntered over to the bar, ignoring the hoarse gasps and chokes behind him. As expected, the tequila collection was excellent, if small, and he returned with a splendid example.

"One million
total
for transporting an unlimited number of my men into Texas," Georges mused, sniffing the new golden liquid.
Eh bien
, he should have chosen his own drink all along.

"The Texans will find and kill you," El Gallinazo coughed.

Georges was too pleased with his easy victory to take offense. "I have my own route through Texas. All you have to do is take me across the Rio Grande."

Black eyes narrowed into a quick reassessment and Georges concealed his smile.

But if you try to follow my path, fool, watch out for snakes and scorpions.

Steve grabbed for her fraying temper and tugged it back under control. She'd had to run to catch Posada in the training academy's parking lot, after spotting him from her office window, and the noontime heat wasn't helping her mood.

She set her duffel bag down on the scorching asphalt with exaggerated caution, determined to at least keep her beloved M4 carbine safe. She held on to the sealed pouch with the computer tapes, of course. She'd promised accounting she'd drop them off at a high security off-site data-storage facility. Some of the vaults there were larger than she was.

"What do you mean, you're closing the investigation? I told you I saw a murder committed." Her drawl was getting thicker, dammit. But who cared about those trifles now?

"Reynolds." Posada turned to face her, propping one foot on his truck's running board. He spread his hands, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "You saw a half dozen criminals fight. Afterward, only one man was still alive."

"Sir, you're skipping several important events."

"How much do you really expect me to do, Reynolds?" He blew out a breath. "Garcia Herrera was pure filth, who'd sold more children into more hell than I care to imagine. When his blood and brains were ID'd, do you know what the DA did?"

She stiffened. "No, sir."

"He went to church and thanked God. Then he started making phone calls to victims so they could do the same. There are many candles being lit tonight across Texas and Oklahoma."

She fought against surging toward him. A dusty black pickup truck reminded her of the real killer's getaway vehicle.

"It doesn't matter who was murdered, only that murder was done." Her stomach clenched, as if it had its own ability to raise objections.

Posada yanked off his sunglasses and stared at her, the crow's-feet at his eyes deepening into bitter grooves. "Yeah, that's right, Reynolds—and pigs fly every Halloween. You tell me you haven't fantasized about shooting brutes like him who needed killing, but somehow walked away laughing from the courtroom."

Honesty wouldn't let her say no.

"He was executed in cold blood." And she'd never forget the man who'd done it. The man she'd opened her bedroom door to for fifteen years, off and on.

"So what? It worked. Frankly, I don't have the resources to chase down this unknown criminal, especially when you can't give me a name or an address." He raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her to complete her statement.

She opened her mouth—and an unseen hand closed around her throat, throttling her. Damn Ethan!

She forced the thought away, together with any possibility of answering Posada's question. Not this time, not ever. Sweat trickled down her spine, settling into her skin along with the cold awareness she stood alone.

She coughed, choked, and wheezed until she recovered, waving off Posada's offer of help. She knew perfectly well what the problem was: If she tried to talk about Ethan, she'd die, the bastard. He didn't use many mind tricks on her but the ones he did really worked. She could only talk about their liaison once—and she'd wasted that on a bachelorette party. Everyone there had been so drunk, they'd written off her tale as a wild fantasy.

"Are you sure you're okay now?" Posada asked again, his voice very gentle.

"Perfectly." She slipped her own sunglasses on, hiding her expression, and kept her voice in the same polite register she used with judges.

"Good. The bike shop staff have been cleared."

She spun around to stare at him. She'd never suggested they were involved.

"They were at a
quinceañera
for the chief welder's daughter. Given the number of people at that party, they've all got solid alibis."

Thank God. If they'd been considered suspects because she couldn't name Ethan, she'd have dragged his worthless ass in personally—once she found him.

"Maybe we can do lunch the next time I'm up here—" Now that was a polite fiction, given the typically brutal Texas Ranger schedule—"But I've got to get back to San Antonio."

"Anything nastier than usual?" she asked to cover her true thoughts—how the heck could one bring a vampiro to justice?

"Not particularly. We've been stretched a little thin the last couple of days, since we've had to work a few crime scenes longer than usual." He tossed his briefcase onto his truck's seat, obviously ready to close the conversation.

She'd need to find Ethan's address. Maybe that old business card of his would help, the one with his phone number.

"Long hours at crime scenes?" She could sympathize. She'd done that before—and she'd probably be spending some serious quality time with computers to track down Ethan. She retrieved her duffel, easily compensating for the guns and ammo's weight.

"The ME's have been busy, digging deep for some women's death certificates. We had a couple of suicides but they had to track down the pollen-caused respiratory problems."

She blinked. Pollen? This early in the year in San Antonio? Since they didn't have many fancy flowering trees like northerners, they normally didn't have any allergy problems until late summer.

"We've been having a lot of wet weather, y'know, making it worse than usual for ragweed. The ladies had their necks arched and mouths hanging open from trying to breath."

Yeah, that sounded like a wicked hay fever attack. But bad enough to kill healthy young people? Well, if the doctors said so.

Posada swung himself into his truck and held out his hand.

She shook it, recognizing dismissal—and the opportunity to bring a murderer to justice on her own.

"Keep in touch, Reynolds."

She lifted a hand in farewell, wiggling her fingers. She had a lot of work to get done before she could sleep that night.

Ethan stood at attention with Jean-Marie, Luis, Gray Wolf, and Caleb in Don Rafael's office, fists clenched and cursing himself over how close the afternoon's attack had come. All the days he'd spent worrying about how to regain Steve, what weapons he could wield against Devol, where he could find allies—everything had led to this.

Four bodies had been placed in ambulances, covered in sweat and vomit, their faces hidden by oxygen masks, guarded by hard-edged medics who spoke to no one else. A woman and her three young children just like his sister Camille and her family, who'd been destroyed during the Civil War. Correction—they'd met their deaths because of his failure, just like today.

His preoccupation had allowed Beau to slice through their defenses and come within five miles of Compostela. How that legendary assassin must have been laughing at them when he chose to attack the Perez family instead! He'd proved his own superiority by making Ethan and his mesnaderos look like incompetent fools.

Ethan's stomach roiled again, sour with bile and dust from old graves.

The heavy shutters' darkness made the spotlight on Don Rafael's knightly sword all the more significant and hard to live up to. A session under Don Rafael's steel-tipped whip would have been easier than the lash of his tongue.

"It does not matter what you thought, Ethan, or you, Gray Wolf," Don Rafael continued, his dark eyes stabbing into their souls. "The enemy penetrated into the heart of my lands, something you said was impossible. He injured my people—innocent people—solely because of their connection to me."