Duke City Hit (12 page)

Hours later, Vic snapped awake to someone rapping at his door. He came out of bed in one smooth movement, plucking the .22 off the nightstand in the dark. The knocking paused, and he heard a woman sob. Then more knocking.

Vic was barefoot, dressed in pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt. He crossed his familiar apartment without turning on any lights. When he reached the door, he peered through the peephole.

Tina stood under the porch light, her mouth twisted and her face streaked with tears. She wore sweatpants and a thin tank top, her shoulders bare in the night chill.

Vic unlocked the door and snatched it open.

“What's happened, Tina? What's wrong?”

Struggling against her tears, she said, “They took him, Vic. Some men took Ryan.”

The Mustang was in the driveway, empty, the engine still running. Vic pulled Tina inside and shut the door.

“Where did this happen?”

“At the motel. We were asleep. They banged on the door.”

“Who did?”

“Two men. One short. One tall. Wearing ski masks.”

“You'd never seen them before? You didn't recognize their clothes?”

She shook her head. Her breath came in shuddering gulps, but she managed to say, “When Ryan opened the door, the short one punched him in the stomach. The other one put a bag over his head. Then they hit him again.”

Vic felt a flush of hot rage.

“I jumped out of bed and tried to help him,” she said. “The tall guy grabbed my ponytail and threw me to the floor.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I'm okay. But by the time I got to my feet, they were gone.”

“You didn't see a car? A van?”

She shook her head as more tears sprang to her eyes. Vic pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, careful to keep the pistol pointed at the ceiling.

“What did you do then?” he said gently. “Did you call the police?”

“I started to, but I thought, what if they come back? What if they decide they shouldn't leave a witness behind? I jumped into my shoes and grabbed Ryan's keys off the dresser and ran out of there.”

“Good thinking.”

“I knew where you lived; Ryan showed me days ago. I thought this would be the safest place. I don't know anybody else here—”

“You did the right thing, sweetie. I'll get dressed and go check out the motel.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes. “You'll leave me here alone?”

“My boss lives next door. You can stay with her while I'm gone.”

He steered Tina to the sofa and said, “Just rest for a second. Catch your breath. I'll throw on some clothes.”

He locked the door and peeked between curtains. Ryan's car still puffed exhaust, but there was no other movement in the yard.

Vic hurried toward his bedroom. As he passed Tina, he patted her shoulder and said, “Sit tight, kiddo.”

Tina stayed on the sofa, arms crossed, her hands wrapped around her bare shoulders. Her tears had stopped abruptly, and she wondered if that meant she'd gone into shock. That happened, right? People who saw something terrible often went into shock. Some never came back.

She rubbed her upper arms. It was warm in the apartment, but her skin was still chilled. She needed to pull herself together and think. Maybe there was some way she could help Ryan.

She pictured herself with Vic's sleek pistol, popping off masked invaders the way she'd do in a video game.
That
would've helped Ryan. Not some girl who got thrown down by her ponytail.

Tina swiped a hand across her nose, then checked it for blood. Nothing. She'd landed pretty hard on the carpeted floor, but her shoulder had taken most of the fall. She'd be bruised tomorrow.

Vic was talking on the phone in the next room. She couldn't make out the murmured words, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his tone. Then a beep as he hung up.

Next, she heard the unmistakable
click-clack
of a pistol's slide. She recognized how quickly she'd accepted Vic's answering the door with a gun. He'd been a bounty hunter and, for all his talk about pepper spray, those guys kept guns handy.

Vic came back into the living room, tucking the pistol into the inside pocket of his gray suit. He wore a black shirt and he'd run a comb through his hair. He checked the window again, saying over his shoulder, “Does Ryan have any enemies?”

“None that I know of. But he always carries that pistol with him.”

Vic checked another window. “Still clear out there.”

He crossed the room to a closet and opened the door.

“You're not really a paper-pusher, are you, Vic?”

“Not exactly, but we don't have time to get into it now.”

He pulled a tan jacket off a hanger.

“Wrap this around you.”

He draped it over her shoulders, then led her outside. He kept his arm around her as they crossed the gravelly yard.

“The car,” she said. “It's still running.”

“I'll take care of it in a minute.”

A light glowed above the driveway at the bungalow's side door. As they went up the concrete steps, the door opened and a woman in a blue bathrobe showed them into a tidy kitchen. Her short hair was tousled and her face was puffy with sleep.

“Tina, this is Penny. This is her house. You'll be safe here until I get back.”

To Penny, he said, “She's had quite a shock. Maybe make her some tea.”

“I'll take care of her. What are you going to do?”

“I'll go to the motel and look around. See if there's any sign of where they went.”

The kitchen had sunny yellow walls and a white tile floor. The kitchen table and four chairs were carved wood in a rustic Southwestern style that didn't seem to go with the rest of the room. Tina pulled a heavy chair out from the table and perched on it unsteadily.

She felt woozy. She leaned forward, arms wrapped around her tummy. Her face was right at the level of their hands as Vic passed Penny a pistol.

“It's got a history,” he said, “so don't use it unless you absolutely have to.”

“No reason to think those guys will come here,” Penny said. “We'll be fine.”

“Still, I'll come right back. I just want a quick look around the motel.”

Vic bent over Tina and looked her in the eyes. “You'll be okay here with Penny?”

Tina nodded. What else could she do?

“Did you leave the motel room locked?”

She nodded. “The key's on Ryan's key ring. In the car.”

“Good. I'll be right back. I'll bring you some clothes.”

Vic backed Ryan's car around until it was pointed toward Sixth Street, then zoomed out the gravel driveway. The hopped-up Mustang bounced into the empty street, its tires chirping when they touched asphalt. The Desert Rose Motel was only a few blocks away, but Vic managed to burn rubber around every corner on the way. He rumbled into the motel's narrow parking lot, checking the few parked cars. All were empty.

Cheery Christmas lights glowed in the windows of the motel office, but no one manned the desk inside. All the rooms were dark, the guests fast asleep at three o'clock on a Saturday morning.

Vic parked a few slots away from room eleven and killed the throbbing engine. He sat there a minute, watching and waiting. Nothing moved. No lights came on.

His knees creaked as he climbed out of the low car. He listened at the door of room eleven for a few seconds before he put the key in the lock.

Once inside, he flipped on the overhead light. The covers were pitched off the bed into a heap on the floor, but otherwise everything looked normal. Nothing to indicate somebody had been snatched from the room.

Cosmetics and hairbrushes and other personal stuff covered the top of the dresser. The wastebasket was full of fast-food trash and soda cans. The small closet was stuffed with clothes on hangers. Vic went through them, picking out some jeans and a sweatshirt and a jacket for Tina.

He went outside and tossed the clothes into the Mustang's passenger seat. As he climbed behind the wheel, his phone trilled. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the readout.

“Penny? What's wrong?”

“Don't get excited, Vic. We're fine. Tina's having some peppermint tea.” She lowered her voice as she added, “But I just got a phone call.”

“From who?”

“Hang on a second.” He heard a door close in the background, then Penny said, “There. I had to leave Tina in the kitchen. It was one of Marino's people on the phone. They've got Ryan.”

“Aw, shit.”

“I'm sorry, Vic. I never thought something like this could—”

“What did he say?”

“Same thing they've been saying. They want you to kill Joaquin Zamora. They think that'll even the score.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“I'm telling you what he said.”

“If I bump Zamora, they'll let Ryan go?”

“That's what he said.”

“We can't count on those people to keep their word.”

“Do we have a choice?”

He sighed.

“I've got some clothes for Tina. I'll bring them there, and you can tell me the rest.”

“I'm so sorry, Vic.”

He hung up.

Penny met Vic at the kitchen door. She'd moved Tina into the living room, out of earshot. Vic had Tina's clothes draped over his arm and he asked about her as soon as he was inside.

“She's pretty messed up,” Penny whispered. “Just staring into space. She didn't even hear the phone ring.”

“The call came from Phoenix?”

“Yes. He didn't identify himself. Just said he was a friend of Harry Marino's. He said his ‘boys' had Ryan and would keep him alive for twenty-four hours.”

“Any way to trace that phone number?”

“Maybe. But what's the point? You going to fly to Phoenix and find the guy and squeeze him until his people hand over Ryan? Any chance that would work?”

“It might.”

“A long shot. At least we know where to find Zamora.”

“His place in the North Valley?”

“No. The man on the phone said he's out of town. Up near Chama.”

Chama was a little tourist town near the Colorado border, best known for a scenic mountain railroad that attracted train buffs from all over. Vic had been up there once, years ago, back when he thought he might like fly-fishing. Turned out fly-fishing was mostly standing thigh-deep in cold water, casting over and over. He'd been bored out of his skull.

“What's he doing up there?”

“Hunting trip with a bunch of his buddies. They're at a lodge on the river, ten miles outside of town. I've got directions—”

“A hunting lodge full of men with guns. Any other good news?”

“A snowstorm's about to hit up there.”

“Great.” Vic sighed. “Any chance Zamora will head for home? I could wait for him here.”

“He's supposed to be up there all week.”

“Shit.”

He chewed on his lower lip, staring at the floor.

“Can Tina stay here with you?”

“Of course. Give me those clothes. I'll take them to her.”

“I should tell her I'm leaving town.”

“I'll tell her. Go pack your gear. Make some coffee. You've got a long drive ahead of you.”

“Right.” He handed over the clothes. “I'll need my heavy coat. Some boots.”

Penny could tell he was mostly talking to himself, making a plan. As he went out into the night, she said, “Good luck.”

Ryan sat in the dark, tallying up the things he knew to be true:

—He was alone. He could hear people moving around in the next room, the murmur of voices, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.

—He sat on a hard kitchen chair, the old-fashioned kind you see in diners, with a plastic-covered seat and heavy chrome legs. Very sturdy. Bolted to the hardwood floor.

—His wrists were cuffed to the frame of the chair between the seat and the back.

—He had a dark pillowcase over his head. It smelled musty.

—He still wore only pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that Tina had given him as a gag, black with big block letters in white:
KISS ME
.

—His bare feet were cold.

—His heartbeat sounded very loud in his ears.

He had no idea why he'd been snatched or who his captors might be. Two masked men had used him for a punching bag, cuffed him and stuffed him into a van. Within ten minutes, they'd reached this place, whatever it was, and Ryan was shackled to this chair.

He estimated an hour had passed since they nabbed him. Had they called Vic yet? Demanded a ransom?

Because this had to be related to Vic. No reason to kidnap Ryan except to use him against his father. Hell, except for Tina and two or three friends back home in Tucson, nobody even knew Ryan was in Albuquerque.

So the kidnappers wanted something from Vic. Maybe money, but more likely they were trying to force him to pop somebody. Would he do it to save Ryan? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Either way, Ryan didn't like his chances of ever leaving this chair. Once the kidnappers didn't need him anymore, they wouldn't risk letting him go. They'd put a bullet in his brain.

He shivered. Already, his hips were stiffening from sitting so long. He gave a tentative tug against the handcuffs, but they were as unyielding as before.

No one would come to his rescue. Vic had no way to locate him, if he even wanted to try. Ryan was on his own. He'd have to find a way to get free of these handcuffs. To escape.

Sooner would be better than later. Maybe he could get to a phone and warn Vic away from whatever deadly ransom the kidnappers had demanded.

Before it was too late. For both of them.

Vic drove through empty predawn streets in Santa Fe, past the opera house and the turnoff to Marc Troy's mansion. He wondered how the murder investigation was going. A rifle slug in the dog and two .22-caliber bullets in Troy. Must be a puzzlement for the cops.

As the sun rose, the highway climbed into rugged country, beautiful and harsh, carved by water and wind into mesas and cliffs and towers of stone. Golden sunlight spilled across the landscape, illuminating the peaks while the valleys lay in shadow.

The scenery was mostly lost on Vic, who was too busy worrying about Ryan and what might come next. He knew better than to try to anticipate the hit. He couldn't truly plan until after he arrived, got the lay of the land, spotted his target.

Vic had a deer rifle in the trunk, a bolt-action Remington with a scope. He hadn't practiced with it lately, but figured he was good from a hundred feet or less. Assuming he could get that close. Assuming Joaquin Zamora ever came outside.

For many men, hunting lodges were an excuse to drink and smoke cigars and play cards. Was Zamora up here to hunt or to get away from his old lady? Either way, he wouldn't likely step outside into a snowstorm. Vic needed to beat that storm to Chama. He gave the Cadillac a little more gas as it climbed a long slope between orange-streaked hills.

The landscape was freckled with low trees, and Vic found himself hoping for such cover around the hunting lodge. Maybe he'd be able to pick off Zamora without fighting the whole crew.

If a kill shot wasn't possible with the rifle, he'd use the bagful of pistols. Walk in and put down anything that moves. Keep shooting and reloading until he could make his way through the bodyguards and toadies to Mr. Joaquin Zamora himself. Put two in his head and get the hell out of there.

A fool's errand. Even if he succeeded in killing Zamora, the odds were against Ryan. Why would Marino's people turn him loose? They could kill him and be gone before Vic even made it back to Albuquerque.

What crappy timing. Vic had spent his whole life alone, avoiding connections that could be used against him. As soon as his son shows up, as soon as he opens his life to another person, some assholes try to take advantage of the relationship.

Bastards. No matter how things went in Chama, no matter whether Ryan survived or not, Vic would travel to Phoenix soon and take out the people behind the kidnapping. Harry Marino's friends. They were goners. They just didn't know it yet.

The winding highway followed the rippling Rio Chama for several miles, then climbed higher into the mountains. Tall pines lined the road, and patches of snow glowed in the underbrush.

He passed a few pickup trucks, headlights on, hunters or men heading to work early on a Saturday. For once, Vic was dressed like those blue-collar guys. Jeans and hiking boots, a thick denim shirt over a long-sleeve undershirt. His heavy coat lay beside him, along with matching gray gloves and a black knit hat. He'd be all right as long as it was just cold. Once the snow started falling and he got wet, he'd have a problem.

He gave the Cadillac a little more gas. He needed to get in, get the job done and get back to Albuquerque before the roads glazed over.