Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(73)
She had to cover her mouth and bite her palm to stifle her own groan so she could listen.
If she’d had any doubt about who it was, the brief conversation between the Mexicans settled it. “What do we do with the body?”
“Same quarry as usual.”
“What happened?”
“The Chechens gave her drugs to shut her up and she used them all. Waste of a pretty mujer. Tomás was finished with her and said I could have her next.”
And then they were in the elevator, leaving Yancy with a buzzing in her ears and, finally, no more fight. She slipped down the wall to the filthy carpet and buried her face in her knees, sobbing. Uncaring that the sounds she made could bring someone to investigate.
Then blood dripped down her arm to the floor. She used the blanket to dab at it, but it only welled up again. It wasn’t a huge wound, but she knew from past experience that she needed a specialized shot from a hospital to stop it. Within a day or two, she’d be past the point of no return.
Her eyes hazed over as the ugly red tinted her world. Red blood, red roses in the garden, her red lips as she kissed a man with a greedy, grasping red tongue, hungry for more, always more . . . Her grief hardened into a cold, pure hatred.
Arturo.
He’d done this to them. Kidnapped her, subjected her to his filthy abuse for months on end, letting his son brutalize Jennifer and turn her into an addict too weak to keep fighting to live.
Everyone was terrified of him. But she wasn’t. Not any longer. Because now he had nothing to threaten her with. If she didn’t get medical attention soon, she’d be dead in a day or two anyway, and she wasn’t sure she cared anymore.
No one was coming. She was alone.
What did she have to lose? She went to the scummy sink, the only plumbing in the tiny room, and turned on the faucet, scrubbing away the residue of tears and blood from the last few days. Her mouth was sore and split, but she slathered on the red lipstick she found there to cover it. Then she used a bit of powder to disguise the bruise on her cheek. She washed between her legs and under her arms, spraying on a heavy dose of perfume. Then, wrapping the mantilla more closely about her face, she slipped into the stilettos and down the hall to the elevator, wearing a black jacket over the wound to disguise the blood.
She’d used her feminine wiles for many months to survive.
She’d only have to use them a few hours longer. . . .
On the threshold of the bathroom, Arturo Cervantes shook Emm’s hand, and if she’d been outside looking in, she would have been bemused at this bizarre propriety between a murderous drug lord and a supposedly pampered society girl. But she was all too involved, and scared right down to her designer pumps. Even her quirky sense of humor couldn’t find anything funny in this scenario. Especially when he pocketed the card and smiled. A smile that reminded Emm of a knife balanced on its tip, ready to cut or clatter away, depending upon the next fifteen minutes—and her deceit and negotiation skills. She skirted past him as she obeyed Arturo’s still polite gesture, indicating she should precede him down the stairs. Emm was eager to reach the study, to have Curt’s company again. What she had to say now would take fluency on both sides.
And a prayer. And luck. Voicing the soundless prayer, and glad she still had her grandma’s four leaf clover, Emm entered the study. Shadows were gathering outside, so they’d been here most of the day. Surely time enough for Ross to arrive if he’d taken an agency jet.
If he’d received her message.
At the secure government portion of the enormous airport in Mexico City, while workers unloaded all the equipment, Chad and the other task force leads gathered around the Mexican Marine general who’d been tapped to spearhead the raid.
Ross watched as Chad explained the new wrinkle. The general brigadier, who sported four silver stars and a gold eagle insignia, scowled but bit off orders to his subordinate. Ross’s Spanish wasn’t as fluent as Chad’s, but he thought he understood well enough that the general was telling his men to take the infrared imaging equipment so they could try to figure out where each person was inside the compound. Their spotters had confirmed that Curt and Emm had arrived in the morning, in a cab that still waited outside the gates.
Ross was itching to get started, but he tamped down his impatience, well aware he was a guest in another country. He was just happy they’d let him keep his guns, even if they inspected them carefully and noted what he carried, including model and ID numbers, in a file. They’d done the same with all their weapons. With the virulent drug wars in Mexico, too often lost or seized weapons ended up in the hands of the cartels, so he couldn’t blame the authorities for being extra cautious.
When the general was finished, Chad came over and briefed them. “We’re going in three vehicles—two panel vans with the lead truck armored. The road has a sharp ess curve right before the compound, and we’re going to shut off our lights and coast until we stop probably a quarter mile away. We’ll have to hoof it up the hillside from there, but it’s our only chance to surround the place unseen. They have state-of-the-art security beginning right past that curve, so once we crest the hill, we’re committed and have to move quickly. I asked about interrupting their power, but the general says Cervantes likely has generator backups, so it wouldn’t gain us much and would probably alert them. We’ll just do it as a diversion as we move in.”