Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(78)

Half the force stormed up the stairs after him, Ross in the lead. As Ross rounded the corner, Cervantes landed a lucky shot as he slammed his bedroom door. Ross took the slug in his helmet. They heard a hydraulic humming and what sounded like a very sturdy bolt shooting home.

Ross dropped to one knee as stars swam and his ears rang. For a moment, he swayed, about to pass out; then a familiar hand clutched his shoulder. Chad stooped to check on him, testing the dent in the helmet and drawing a deep breath of relief when his finger couldn’t go all the way through.

“Give it a minute,” he said loudly into Ross’s ear. “Thank God it was only a .357.”

A minute? Emm doesn’t have a minute, Ross wanted to say, still struggling to stay conscious.

The next few minutes would have to be explained to him later.

As the marine captain, Rosemary, and the head of the DEA reached the bedroom door, Rosemary shot several times at the latch, and both men kicked the door, but they winced and backed away, nursing sore toes. The marine captain compressed all his considerable weight in one huge assault on the door, but it didn’t budge a millimeter. He rubbed his shoulder.

The DEA chief bent to check out the lock and shook his head grimly. “It’s reinforced steel. It must have dropped from the ceiling. We’ll need a torch.”

Rosemary said, “Surely he’s trapped . . . Who has a floor plan?”

The captain, who obviously spoke some English, pulled a paper blowup from a zippered pouch. They all huddled over it.

Ross’s ears were still ringing, but his gaze had cleared enough that he saw one of the FBI agents run up from the foyer. He said something to Chad that Ross couldn’t hear. Chad ran back down the stairs.

Ross hauled himself to his feet, holding on to the wall, willing the deafness and nausea to recede. He painfully moved forward to appraise the door, realizing what was wrong with one glance. He said sharply, though he barely heard his own words, “We need to regroup and send someone to man every upper-floor window and possible egress!”

The marine captain was already on his radio.

Taking a deep breath, Ross was girding himself for what looked like a hostage scenario with Emm as the hostage, when he realized Chad was assessing something downstairs. Ross slowly walked back to the landing, still unsteady, and saw Chad kneeling next to a stretcher. Even from here, that long blonde hair was a ghastly contrast to the blood still dripping onto the expensive marble. He saw Chad leaning over Yancy, listening, as the medic set up a small portable drip into Yancy’s wounded wrist.

He made it down the stairs, though he was still dizzy and almost lost his footing twice. He had to hold on to the banister. Slowly, the nausea was subsiding, but it was a good thing he hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours. He made it to Yancy’s side and knelt next to her, seeing that she was clutching Chad’s arm with her bloodied hand. He moved closer, trying to hear, too, and caught, “Escape . . . hatch. Bathtub, master . . . bedroom.”

Chad leaped to his feet, obviously intending to run upstairs to warn the others, but Yancy tugged at his pants leg. He knelt down to her again.

She was struggling for words because the medic had put her on painkillers and a fluid drip to help with blood loss. The man looked away when Ross tried to meet his eyes. Ross had seen that look from medical personnel before—they had to get her to a hospital, quick. He knew enough about hemophilia to realize the medic wouldn’t have anything to help in his field kit, and that if she’d been bleeding for a day or two, she needed a shot and probably a liquid drip of the latest hemophilia med or it might be too late to stop the bleeding at all.

Chad knelt down next to her again. Ross leaned in.

“Outside . . . big oak tree. Tunnel leads there. Stop him.” Her voice broke, and tears seeped into her dirty blonde hair. “He killed my . . . daughter.” And then she couldn’t talk anymore as the drugs took her.

Big oak tree? Holy crap, that was where Abby and the general were waiting.

Ross teetered where he stood, torn between storming outside and staying upstairs to see if they could somehow break in. But he suspected Cervantes would bolt like the rat he was, and he was taking Emm with him. He and Chad exchanged a look. Chad ran for the door, reaching for his radio, but it was missing from his belt. He cursed, taking the exterior steps in three strides. Ross followed. They both skirted the long road, aiming straight for the steep hillside. They looked around for backup as they ran, but the few of their men outside were guarding doors and windows as instructed, and gunfire still peppered occasionally from all quarters.

They were on their own.





Emm’s headache had died down a little, leaving room for fear to take its place. But she knew better than to show it. Every time she stumbled or faltered, Cervantes pushed her between the shoulder blades with the pistol. They were in a dimly lit cavity Emm figured led outside somewhere because the curving stairs seemed to plunge forever into darkness. Lights lined the walls, but they weren’t bright enough to illuminate much more than the steps, so she had no idea where they were going.

She knew Ross was frantically looking for her, and she was still worried about Yancy. At the moment, however, survival was her only priority. To keep her sanity, she concentrated on one step at a time. She placed each foot carefully, holding on to the thin metal railing as she went.

Following closely behind her, the gun still pressed into her ribs, Cervantes growled into his radio. Static, and then Russian voices answered.