Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(67)

He was well dressed as usual—a chocolaty wool suit, teal shirt, mauve silk tie. He regarded the woman on the bed with his usual sad expression, as if he’d simply come as a dear friend. Then he reached in his jacket and took out a syringe and a small vial.

Maia snapped a picture.

Hernandez moved toward Ana’s bed. Maia pulled her gun and stepped out of the bathroom. “Lieutenant.”

Hernandez turned, his eyes as glassy as a sleepwalker’s. He was right next to Ana. The syringe was full.

“I got a nice picture of you about to poison your protégée,” Maia said. “Try it and I’m going to blow a hole in your f**king Italian suit.”

Hernandez regarded Ana. The needle was three inches from her forearm. “I should’ve killed you first, Miss Lee. That was a mistake.”

“I think we can agree that your priorities are f**ked up,” Maia said. “Now step away from Ana.”

Hernandez focused on a spot in the air, as if he were listening to some other voice. “Miss Lee, you don’t understand. I’m not interested in saving my own skin.”

“No,” Maia said. “You’re interested in saving Lucia’s memory. And if you don’t cap the syringe, I’ll tell everyone the truth about Frankie’s murder.”

She wasn’t sure she truly understood until that moment, when his eyes turned cold and bright. “You’ve shared your thoughts with Navarre and Arguello?”

“You’re going to do that,” she said. “We’re going to go see them right now.”

“And why should I agree?”

“Because you want the truth to come out. Deep down, you won’t be satisfied with someone else taking the blame. Part of you wanted Ana to pick up that cold case. You wanted to hurt her. You wanted Ana to know, Etch.”

She’d never addressed him by his first name before, and it seemed to unnerve him.

He lowered the needle. He wiped it with his handkerchief, capped it, put it back in his jacket pocket. “You plan to walk out of here holding a police lieutenant at gunpoint?”

“Not at gunpoint,” Maia said. “I’m taking your sidearm and putting mine away. We leave together. If you try anything, I’ll break your neck with my bare hands.”

THEY LEFT THE HOSPITAL TOGETHER. HERNANDEZ was calm. Way too calm. He made no attempt to run or yell for help.

When they got to Maia’s BMW, he took the wheel without complaint. Maia got in the passenger’s seat and took out her gun. Second time in one weekend, she thought grimly, that she’d had a hostage chauffeur.

She doubted Hernandez would remain compliant once she told him they were going to the White mansion.

She was about to give him his driving directions when her phone rang.

The sound distracted her only for a second, but that was enough. Morning sickness dulled her reflexes. Before she knew what was happening, Hernandez had wrenched the gun out of her hand and was pressing the muzzle under her jaw.

The phone kept ringing.

Maia sat perfectly still, her heart pounding.

“Change of plans, Miss Lee,” Hernandez said. “You’ll be driving. This is going to end where it began.”

Without taking his eyes off her, he managed to find her purse and fish out the phone. He answered it on the fifth ring.

“Mr. Navarre,” he said. “What a surprise.”

Chapter 18

AFTER THE CALL, I DIDN’T CARE MUCH ABOUT THE KITCHEN burning around me, or the men with guns outside. All I cared about was getting out, getting to Maia.

“Twenty minutes?” Ralph cursed Etch Hernandez with Spanish epithets even I had never heard. “That’s impossible, vato.”

“Bigger fire,” I advised.

We splashed more brandy, piled on grocery bags and washrags and cardboard boxes, and in no time we had a nice blaze going along the back wall. Soon the curtains and the back door were in flames.

Ralph smashed out a window with his baseball bat. He threw a Molotov cocktail toward the driveway and was rewarded with a loud BA-ROOM and some surprised yelps from the men outside.

“The kitchen’s on fire!” one of them yelled.

Full points for powers of observation.

They banged on the back door, found it too hot to touch.

“Around to the front!” somebody yelled.

Perfect.

The guys on the interior door hammered away with newfound zeal. The refrigerator rattled and rocked.

“Another few seconds,” Ralph said.

“Smoke,” I warned. “No time.”

I could barely see. Forget breathing.

Ralph climbed onto the kitchen sink. He kicked open the only window that wasn’t in flames and jumped. I was right behind him.

The diversion almost worked. At least, there was no one waiting to shoot us as we crashed through a pomegranate bush and tumbled onto the back lawn.

We wove between banquet tables, trying to avoid broken champagne glasses and soggy paper plates of leftover food.

We were just passing the pavilion tent, about halfway to the woods, when Alex Cole yelled, “Freeze!”

He had anticipated our plan well enough to position himself on the back veranda of the house. He’d exchanged his Krispy Kreme doughnuts for an automatic assault rifle. Even from halfway across the yard, I was pretty sure a full clip would turn us into Swiss cheese.