The Surge - 03 (13 page)

Chey was cursing her wet palms as she was escorted into the darkness of Titus. “Right this way, Madam,” the maître d greeted.

With her eyes still adjusting to the low light, she was shown into the Italian Bristol room, and for a moment, she was certain a whiff of Zach’s aftershave lingered in the air. That one, brief connection helped settle her nerves.

A man was already seated. He rose sharply, smiled, and stepped closer as she was shown in. “My name is Vincent,” he announced. “Thank you for having dinner with me this evening.”

Chey offered her hand, which the charming gent immediately kissed. For a moment, she thought he was going to click his heels together during the act, but that didn’t happen.

Their waiter held her chair and unfolded her napkin. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a pre-dinner wine. I hope you’ll find a Montrachet Grand Cru acceptable.”

Chey decided to be honest, “I have no idea what that is, Vincent. I’m afraid my knowledge of wines is rather primitive.”

His response was an absolutely blank stare, and for a moment, the young beauty thought she’d blown the interview before it had even begun.

After a long pause, he smiled. “I like honesty. Someone with your charm has no need of pretense. I think you’ll find the wine a wonderful experience.”

With her eyes adjusting to the dimness, Chey took a moment to study her host. She estimated he was in his late 30s, early 40s. He had a lighter complexion than many Latinos, the kind that made it difficult to tell how much was suntan, and how much was genetics.

Her sense was that he was very fit, like a swimmer or runner. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Zach, probably just a little over six feet. His teeth were almost too white, the man’s haircut and mustache groomed to perfection. She could tell his suit had been custom fit, the cloth of extraordinary quality.

What drew the model’s attention most were his eyes. They were dark pools of confidence, resonating with the self-esteem of wealth. Chey had seen plenty of well-to-do men in her career, and the man seated across from her was a prime example of the breed.

There was something else about his scrutiny, however, some trait that was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It took her a moment to identify the attribute, and when she did, the cold fog of fear entered her core.

Years ago, as a child, she’d gone hiking in Big Bend National Park. Cheyenne, always the rebel, had wandered off the trail, seeking a high formation of rocks visible in the distance.

Finally achieving the objective, she found a flat rock and reclined there, enjoying her victory and admiring the hard-earned view.

She’d been drinking from her canteen when some sixth sense alerted Chey she was being watched. Turning slowly to scan her surroundings, she encountered a mountain lion standing less than 20 feet away. It was an experience that she would never forget.

For over a minute, human and puma maintained eye contact. To the Texas teen, it had seemed like hours before the big cat had turned and vanished into the rocks.

Chey recalled the animal’s eyes and the emotionless trance of the predator. To the cougar, she was nothing but a hunk of meat … a potential meal … a strange occurrence on the high formation. There was no anger, mercy, fear, or caring – only intensity.

Now, in the fanciest restaurant she’d ever visited, Chey sensed the same coldness in Vincent’s gaze. She was nothing but a potential to satisfy a need. There was no compassion, intrigue, or disdain – only intensity.       

Outside, less than 70 yards away, Sam and Zach were listening and watching intently. “Who is this guy? We need an ID … and quick.”

The lady ranger was connected to multiple law enforcement databases, her hands flashing across the keyboard as she tried various searches. “I’m getting zero hits of any cartel bosses named Vincent. We need more information.”

As if on cue, the two rangers heard Chey’s voice streaming through the listening devices, “So tell me, Vincent, where are you from originally?”

“I was born in a small village that you’ve never heard of,” he answered. “It is a settlement in the mountains, studded with juniper and white oak. As a boy, I would ride the high meadows on a 16-hand gelding who was sure-footed and always brought me home. The air and water were clean and invigorating. There are times when I miss that simple life.”

By accident or design, the mention of horses was a lure Chey couldn’t resist. For the first time that evening, the true sparkle of her eyes showed through. “What was the gelding’s name?”

“Angel,” came the quiet reply of a man drifting somewhere in his past.

Cheyenne wanted to change the subject, sensing something melancholy brewing in her host. Still, she was on comfortable ground talking about horses. “How long did you have Angel?” she asked innocently.

An odd smile pulled at Vincent’s lips, the expression sending another chill down Chey’s spine. That sensation soon became an outright horror. “Only a short time, I’m afraid,” he replied, sipping lightly from his wine glass. “A drought struck our village, followed by an extremely harsh winter. There was no food. Angel fed many families.”

The young model was shocked, choking on the mouth full of wine slipping past her lips. It wasn’t only the tale, but the telling. Vincent showed no emotion, no regret or anger. Something about the delivery was cold, hollow, and frightening.

“I’m fortunate that I enjoyed her company for as long as we had together,” Vincent continued. “She was very much like you – a beautiful image to behold.”

Cheyenne managed to mumble a quiet, “Thank you,” just as one of the bodyguards entered the room. “Excuse me, Jefe, but we have detected a disturbing signal.”

“Turn them off!” Zach snapped at Sam. “Turn off the electronics – right now!”

Again the lady ranger’s hands were darting across the keyboard as Zach watched the still streaming video feed. A man appeared on camera, holding some sort of electric device that looked like a miniature tennis racket strung with copper-colored wire. The picture went blank.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Zach cursed, rising from the table and reaching for his weapon. “I don’t think you turned them off fast enough. Let’s go!”

Inside Titus, the security man stalked slowly around the room, scanning the walls, table, fireplace, and even the ivy. Chey was next.

A series of green lights illuminated on the device as the man passed them over her earrings. The bodyguard inhaled sharply and then stared directly at his boss, snapping a string of staccato Spanish.

Everything seemed to happen at once.

The room was flooded with Vincent’s security team, muscular men hustling in all directions. She heard someone say, “Take her with us,” and then her earrings were ripped from her lobes at the same moment strong hands pinned her arms.

“I’ve got movement in the alley,” came BB’s voice. “A large van just pulled up. Something’s wrong.”

“Gus! Gus!” Zach shouted, running for the front door. “Block the alley! Don’t let them get out.”

Zach and Sam, weapons drawn and badges exposed, were running for the restaurant’s front door when a dark head appeared above them on the stairs. “El Rinche! El Rinche!” the guard screamed, using the Spanish slang for the Texas Rangers.

Another head appeared, quickly followed by the barrel of a gun. “Down!” Zach yelled, raising his pistol to return fire.

Zach spotted a Glock pistol, the magazine extending far beneath the meaty hand that grasped the weapon. “Oh shit!” the ranger managed to bark, diving hard. A hellfire of burning lead rained down on the stone stairs.

A seemingly endless stream of bullets flew at the two rangers as the man above emptied the 33 rounds through the Glock model 18 pistol. Rock and concrete splinters filled the air, and the 9mm rounds whacked and thwacked all around the two lawmen.

Then it stopped.

“He’s reloading!” Zach shouted, centering his aim on the wooden door, sure that the thug was using it for cover. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he tried to calculate if the thick barrier would stop his .45 caliber slugs. There was only one way to find out.

The ranger squeezed off four shots, small white specs showing where his rounds were striking the ornate door. Before Zach saw her, Sam had come up beside him on the stairs and loosed another two rounds from her weapon.

“Get back!” he warned, moving to shove Sam to the safer side of the stone steps. He was too late.

Again the barrel appeared, a steady bright strobe of death spitting from the muzzle. Stone shrapnel and ricocheting lead filled the air as Zach tried to push Sam out of the way.

Sam felt like a power hitter's baseball bat struck her leg, and then a red pain like fire worked its way through her nervous system. She knew she’d been hit at the same moment the limb refused to answer her commands.

Zach felt his partner’s body jolt from the impact as he flung her against the rock wall of the staircase. He knew she’d been wounded before her yelp of pain reached his ears.

“Where?” he shouted as he turned and began pouring rounds into the door above. “Where are you hit?”

“My leg! Oh, fuck that hurts! Damn it!”

Zach’s pistol locked back empty. As he reached for a refill, Sam shoved her weapon at his hand. “Here, use this!”

They exchanged guns, Zach snap firing until Sam’s blaster was empty. By then, she was handing him back his own weapon with a fresh mag.
What a woman
, he thought.
That’s why she’s a ranger.

“How bad is it?” he yelled over the thunder of his shots.

“I’ll live, but walking isn’t an option,” her brave voice announced. “I think the bone’s broken.”

Again, the maelstrom of lead rained down from above, the shooter exposing more of himself to get a better angle on the rangers. The shots were getting closer. Zach found himself pinned, wishing the man trying to kill them had slept through geometry.

“Officer down! Officer down on the stairway!” he remembered to broadcast over the radio.

Chey was a country girl, raised on a ranch and no stranger to physical labor. Yet, despite her excellent athletic conditioning, she found herself helplessly sandwiched between two granite-like walls of muscle. She tried to struggle, kick, and even bite one of her captors, all to no avail. “You scum sucking polecats.… I’m going to kick your sorry asses,” she growled during the struggle.

The security men ignored her.

She was herded through the restaurant, Vincent’s men hustling to get their boss clear of the now-constant roar of gunfire streaming from the restaurant’s lobby.

Just as Chey and her two handlers burst through the back door, a strong voice yelled, “Freeze! Police! Drop your weapons!”

Chey was thrust against the side of a van, and then the roaring clap of a gunshot exploded by her ear. Another shot followed, the narrow, high brick walls serving to amplify the deafening assault. The alley erupted in chaos.

The man next to her went down, both of his hands flying to his face as a red cloud of mist filled the air behind the henchman’s skull. Another weapon roared nearby, its sound reminding Chey of her father’s chainsaw when it needed oil.

She watched another of Vincent’s men fall, the fellow screaming in pain as he rolled on the ground. Voices were shouting in English and Spanish. People were moving in confusing blurs of color. Bullets whizzed and pinged off metal and brick.

Then rough hands were shoving her toward the van’s open door. Instinct told Chey she didn’t want to be inside. With a desperate grasp, she clutched the side of the opening and held on with an adrenaline-powered grip. 

The van started moving, the noise of its revving engine now competing with the firefight all around her. Chey was being dragged, her feet bouncing along the pavement as her arms refused to let go of the door.

Then, out of nowhere, she spied Gus’s face and arm reaching for her. Some portion of her brain identified the detective as a friend. He was running hard, trying to keep up. She let go with one hand, reaching for the safety of his outstretched arm.

She realized she was falling then, feeling suspended in midair as her forward momentum bled off. It was okay. She was calm. She was nearly in Gus’s friendly arms.

Her finger touched his; then his strong grip was closing around her hand. She saw a smile form behind his eyes … and then his head snapped back as his ball cap flew into the air.

Chey hit the ground hard, rolling like a rag doll as the rear wheels of the van passed right in front of her face. Then there was something else in her floundering arms. Something softer than the painful pavement and blacktop of the alley. Some cushion to diminish the beating her body was taking as she tumbled along the concrete and asphalt.

Finally, she stopped moving. Her brain raced to check her limbs and torso, trying to sort out the multitude of pain impulses that threatened to overwhelm rational thought.

Chey finally opened her eyes. Gus laid next to her, his eyes devoid of light, his skin the color of a white bedsheet. A pool of blood puddled where his dark hair should have been. The top of the detective’s head had been disintegrated.

Cheyenne’s very soul ached as she struggled to fill her lungs with air and shrieked in horror.