Broken Hero Page 2

  I honestly haven't been giving it much thought, but now that she’s mentioned it, the fact that there has been zero chatter about our houseguest is kind of strange. Most of the chatter we pick up is static. Nothing, really. But, given his importance, and the fact that he can bring down the entire Zavala Cartel, it stands to reason that there would be something out there. Some anonymous tip or threat, some word from a trusted source, or confidential informant, warning of a coming hit. Something.

  “Yeah, that is weird,” I say. “But it could just be they're on lockdown and aren't communicating through normal channels. It's happened before.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she replies. “Still, I just get the feeling something's coming. I don't believe for a second that they're going to let Marco testify, and expose them. Not if they can help it.”

  “No, you're right,” I say. “I have no doubt they're going to try to take a shot at him. Threat assessments say the most logical place to take a shot at him will be in or around the courthouse. Plenty of cover, and they can exploit the crowds.”

  “Unless they know where the safe house is,” she says, her tone as grim as her expression.

  “Well, you're just full of good cheer tonight, aren't you?” I chuckle. “This safe house is off the grid. It's not listed in the usual databases. The only people who have access –”

  “I know, I know,” she says. “There's just this feeling in my gut that I can't shake.”

  “Like you think they know where the safe house is?”

  She shakes her head. “Not necessarily. That was just a thought that passed through my head,” she replies. “No, I just have this feeling that something big is coming. Something bad.”

  Jenny isn't the kind of woman who gets the heebie-jeebies, or a case of the creeps very often. She doesn't scare too easily, and she certainly doesn't buy into the whole ESP deal. She's a woman who runs on logic, who is intelligent beyond belief, and more intuitive than most people I've ever met. She's also a woman with exceptional gut instincts. Her intuition is honed to a razor's edge, and I've personally never known her intuition to be wrong.

  Which is what makes a nervous ripple pass through me. It would have been easy enough to write off the lack of chatter through the usual channels as meaningless and insignificant. These cartel guys are smart, and they're getting far more cunning and sophisticated in their methods of communication – along with everything else.

  But still, I would have found it less disturbing to not have anybody actually talking about hitting Marco, if Jenny wasn't also getting a ping on her intuitive radar at the same time. An uneasy feeling hangs in the air between us as we sit in silence for a moment longer. I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair and try to diffuse the sudden tension.

  “I'm sure everything's going to be fine,” I say. “Anyway, about Tahiti –”

  A knock on the front door interrupts me, and I sigh. Jenny gives me a smile and stands up.

  “Time to feed Marco,” she says. “Did you want to grab a drop cloth while I go fetch his pizza?”

  I laugh as she walks out of the kitchen and check my watch. Our food hopefully, isn't too far behind. I suddenly feel completely ravenous. The brief conversation with Jenny is going through my head when I hear the front door open. The next sound turns the blood in my veins into solid ice.

  The burst of automatic gunfire is unmistakable. There is no other sound like the chatter of an automatic weapon – once you've heard it up close, you never forget it. And I heard it plenty often enough back in the Corps.

  I'm on my feet, weapon in hand, and am moving toward the door before the burst of gunfire even fades. Four men in dark ski masks are coming through the doorway. I raise my weapon and fire off three quick shots. The first two men through the door go down in a heap on the floor.

  I have to duck back behind the doorway as the third one in raises his weapon and fires off a quick burst. I can feel the bullets slamming into the wall behind me. Somewhere further in the house, I hear a door slam. Good. That means Marco probably got to cover. If there's one thing cockroaches like him know how to do, it's survive. I lean out and fire two quick shots, sending the remaining two gunmen scrambling for cover.

  I have to control my breathing, as well as my racing heart. My body is humming with adrenaline-fueled electricity, and all I can think about it is Jenny. I haven't seen or heard from her since that initial burst. Intellectually, I know what that means. I already know she's gone. Emotionally, I don't want to know. I want to pretend that she's fine. That she's okay.

  I know better though. I've been through war, and I've lost people before.

  Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision. I scrub them away quickly and try to get my mind right. I have to focus on the job. That's all that matters – the job. It's what Jenny would do. She'd suck it up and finish the job.

  I strain my ears and can hear their furtive footsteps. They don't want to make a move on Marco until they have me out of the way. Smart thinking. The second they turn their backs on me, I'll put a bullet in it. I know they're out there plotting – trying to come up with a quick way to end me. They can't afford to let me live, nor can they let Marco live.

  They have a job to do, but they don't have much time to work with, and I know it. After the initial burst of gunfire, somebody in this neighborhood probably called the police. It won't be long before local law enforcement – LEO's – will be on the scene. Which means that they're going to have to make a move sooner, rather than later.

  I'm not going to be content to let them get hauled in by the LEO's though. Fuck no. Not after they murdered Jenny. Not after they killed the woman I love. No, I won't be satisfied with them being hooked up, knowing their shady ass lawyers – cartel lawyers – will probably be able to get them off on some technicality. The idea of these pricks ever walking the street, breathing fresh air again, is enough to make my blood boil.

  I need to bait them into making a mistake – and then I'm going to kill them.

  “Clock's ticking, assholes,” I call out. “Cops are gonna be on the scene any minute. Make your move. Let's do this, you fucking cowards.”

  Nothing. Not so much as a peep. They're professionals, obviously. I hear the scuff of a boot on tile – one is still in the entryway. Near Jenny. The creak of a floorboard tells me the other one is in the living room. The house is silent, but the smell of cordite from the gunfire is still thick in the air. They're waiting for me to make a move. I have a feeling they're waiting for me to make a mistake, maybe hoping that by killing my partner, they'll provoke an emotional reaction in me that causes me to slip up.

  They don't know me.

  I can compartmentalize like nobody's business. There will be time to mourn Jenny later. And I will. But right now, I need to finish them off. I need to do the job. The best way I can honor Jenny is to pick up, carry on, and kill these motherfuckers.

  My mind is working the problem, and I come up with a plan. On the far side of the kitchen is a door that leads to the backyard. I know from having used it plenty of times, that it opens quietly, and smoothly. If I can get out that door without being seen, I can circle around the house, come in through the front door, and take them both by surprise.

  Moving as quietly as I ever have, I cross the kitchen and stand near the door. At the same time, I fire a couple of shots down the hallway that leads to the front rooms, I throw the door open – just in case. I hear footsteps scrambling as my bullets go flying – apparently they were trying to sneak down the hallway, and I hadn't heard them. They're good. Really good.

  I move as quickly and quietly as possible – something I'm well versed in, thanks to my time in Force Recon. We often had to rely on stealth, and swift action to get a job done. I hustle along the side yard and open the gate as slowly, and quietly as I can. Rounding the corner, I head for the front door and steel myself for what's waiting for me.

  I know that Jenny will be in the entryway. There's no way I'm going to be able to avoid seeing her.
I need to keep my focus though. Need to compartmentalize and keep my shit straight.

  “Focus,” I mutter to myself.

  I come around the bushes and see the open front door. All I focus on is the man standing guard in the doorway. He has his back to me, and I have a decision to make – put him down now and draw the attention of the other gunman? Or take the risk of trying to take him out quietly, and get the drop on the other?

  It's not a difficult decision to make. I bound up onto the porch silently, move behind the man, and take him from behind, wrapping my arms around his neck. With one quick jerking motion, I hear the snap, and he falls limp in my arms. I let him down gently, trying to keep the noise to a minimum.

  As I lay him down, I find myself staring into Jenny's wide open, but sightless eyes. She's looking off into eternity, her mouth hanging open, surrounded by so much blood. I have to stifle the choked sob that's threatening to rise up within me.

  Compartmentalize. Focus. Do the job.

  I stuff all of my emotions down into the lockbox inside my soul and get to my feet. Stepping into the house, I silently cross into the living room. I look over and see the door to the back rooms is still closed. In the hallway in front of me – the one that leads to the kitchen – I see the silhouette of the man trying to kill me. He's tall but wiry. Dressed in black from head to toe, he looks like an evil specter.

  Seeing Jenny's wide, unseeing eyes flash through my mind, the rage in me bursts. I step forward and raise my weapon, no longer caring if he hears me. I have the upper hand, and this is over. A floorboard squeaks beneath my shoe, and the man starts to spin around. I see his eyes widen behind his mask as he realizes what's about to happen.

  I squeeze off one shot. Two shots. Three shots. I keep squeezing the trigger until the gun clicks empty in my hand. Each bullet hits home, and I feel a small sense of satisfaction as I watch the man's body twitch and jerk with each impact, as if he's dancing to some music, only he can hear. He crumples to the ground in a heap and is still. Forever.

  And I still feel empty inside. Hollowed out. Avenging Jenny's death did nothing to fill the gaping hole that's suddenly yawning inside of me. Not that I actually thought it would.

  “Hey, puto.”

  “Shit,” I mutter and start to spin.

  It's too late though. I see the man in black, his face covered by a mask – everything but his eyes. And his eyes are burning with hate. A fifth gunman. One I didn't see before. One who is there just in case everything else goes to shit, acting as a failsafe. Shit.

  I launch myself forward, but he squeezes the trigger on the pistol he's carrying. I hear the sound of the shots and feel them tearing into my body. A white-hot, searing pain shoots through me like a bolt of lightning. It steals the air from my lungs, and as I crash to the floor, there is not a part of my body that doesn't hurt, and I can't catch my breath. I lay there wheezing and gasping, a wet, choking sound coming from my throat.

  I turn my head and see the man looking down at me. I see the light of amusement in his eyes and know that he's smiling behind that mask of his. He lowers his weapon, content to let me suffer, and bleed out.

  I watch him turn away from me. He heads across the living room and kicks open the door that leads to the back rooms. I hear Marco screaming, but it's muffled as if coming to me from a million miles away. The sound of the shots are barely louder than of somebody coughing. I start to feel cold, and there's a dreamlike wavering at the edges of my vision. I can feel my life seeping away in a pool of crimson.

  The man casually comes out of the back rooms, gives me one last smirk, then walks out the front door, and out into the cool night air like he doesn't have a care in the world.

  I lay there, feeling myself growing weaker by the second. I close my eyes, bracing for the inevitable. And as the darkness pulls me under, all I can see are Jenny's wide open, but unseeing eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Isla

  Four Years Ago...

  “This is a joke, right?” I ask. “This has to be some sort of a sick fucking joke.”

  I turn to my brother, who's sitting at the table to my right. He lowers his gaze, refusing to look me in the eye. I then turn my attention to the man in the dark suit to my left. His face is grim, his gaze harder than steel. He's about six feet tall, has dark hair shot through with gray, a large bushy, Wilford Brimley-type mustache, and he looks like he's been carved from solid granite. He's got eyes that look like they've seen too much horrible stuff for one lifetime. He looks determined but haunted.

  The man in the suit – U.S. Marshal Walter Parr – gives me a tight smile. “I'm afraid not, Ms. Nelson,” he says. “Your life is in danger.”

  I shake my head, trying to figure out how in the hell my life suddenly imploded in the last five minutes. It had been an otherwise unremarkable night. I had some soft music on the stereo, a glass of wine, grading some papers – my usual, mundane life. A life that may be boring to most, and somewhat lonely at times, but a life that makes me insanely happy.

  Then my brother, Marshal Parr, and his colleague from the FBI rolled in and blew up my entire world.

  “Rory, what in the hell is going on?” I ask my brother. “Is what Marshal Parr telling me true?”

  Rory continues looking down at his hands, resting on the tabletop. He won't look up at me. He's just sitting there, staring at his hands, his face blanched, wearing an inscrutable expression. My frustration is only matched by my fear at this point.

  I slam my fist down on the table so hard, my wine glass starts to tip. Parr snatches it up before it can fall though and sets it back down gently. My eyes are narrowed, and my jaw clenched, and it's all I can do to keep from punching him in the face. Rory finally looks up at me, and I can see the absolute, stark terror in his eyes. He clears his throat and runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair.

  My brother looks like shit. His hair is shaggy, too long, he looks like he hasn't shaved – or slept – in a week, and his eyes are red, glassy, and filled with the purest fear I've ever seen in another person before. His clothes are rumpled and look like he's slept in them for days. Everything about Rory in that moment is frantic. Harried. Completely disheveled.

  He's a meticulous man, my brother. Always very well dressed and put together. There is never a hair out of place on his head, and he's fastidious about his appearance. He usually takes more time getting ready than I do. Everything has to be just so before he's willing to be seen in public. He's always been that way.

  His physical condition right now, tells me about all I really need to know. The fact that he's so messy and unkempt tells me he's unraveling. That he's under intense pressure and is on the verge of cracking. That tells me that what Parr is telling me is true. And that my life truly is in grave danger.

  I just want to hear Rory say it. Not that it means anything, or will change anything, but I want to hear him say it. I want to hear him tell me that he's ruined my life because he's a greedy, selfish, son of a bitch.

  “It wasn't supposed to happen like this,” Rory finally says, licking his lips nervously. “You were never supposed to be involved, Isla.”

  “Yeah, well apparently, I am involved now, Rory,” I snap. “Thanks to you.”

  “I never meant –”

  “I don't give a damn what you meant, Rory,” I roar. “This is where we're at now. My entire life is being blown up because of you. How could you do it?”

  “I – I never meant to even get involved with this, Isla. You have to believe me,” he says. “It just happened –”

  I point my finger at him, the rage in me building. “No. This doesn't just happen. You don't just happen to start working with a fucking drug cartel,” I spit. “That's a conscious decision, Rory. You made a conscious decision to do this. And now, I'm stuck paying the price for it.”

  Rory sighs and lowers his gaze again, unable to continue looking at me. I can see the shame, as well as the fear, enveloping him, and see just how low he is. Good. He should be. He shoul
d feel like the lowest piece of shit on the planet right about now.

  “Your brother is going to be doing a valuable service to the Federal government,” Agent Parr says. “By turning state's witness, he's going to help us roll up this cartel and put them out of business. As the cartel's bookkeeper, he's in a unique position to know about all of their dealings, where they stash their money, and how they launder it. He's got the whole operation down cold.”

  I scoff. “Valuable service or not, he's a criminal,” I seethe. “He's been working with criminals. Murderers. He's condoned –”

  Rory looks up and shakes his head defiantly. “I never knew exactly what they were doing,” he protests, the waver in his voice betraying him. “I never would have condoned –”

  “Bullshit,” I shout so loud, even Parr and his colleague jump. “They're a fucking drug cartel, Rory. What did you think they were doing? If you didn't know, it's because you didn't want to know. Your willful ignorance is not an excuse.”

  There's a moment of tense silence that descends over the room. Both Parr and his partner look uneasy, and Rory looks absolutely miserable. His eyes shimmer with tears, and though the sister instinct in me wants to comfort him, I shut that down real fast. What he's done is unforgivable. What I'm now being asked to do is even more so.

  I've worked hard to get to where I am in my life. I've worked hard to get to a place where I'm happy. Comfortable. Where I feel fulfilled and satisfied. I've busted my ass to get to this place, and now, it's gone. All gone. Like a puff of smoke on a breeze, it's just gone. Part of me wants to cry and smash things, but the rage in me at the moment is just too deep.

  I turn to Parr. “Why am I being pulled into this, Marshal Parr?” I ask. “I have nothing to do with this. That's all my brother.”

  “We can't force you to accept witness protection,” Parr says. “That's a decision only you can make. But what I can tell you – again – is that if you stay out on your own, your life is in very serious danger, Ms. Nelson. This cartel – they're vicious. They are well known to go after the families of those who turn on them. I have no desire to be too graphic, so all I'll tell you is that those people died – hard. Painfully. They were tortured for a long –”