Big Sky Cartel Manhunt

Chapter One

Somewhere in Broadwater County, Montana

One misstep and I’m dead.

The certainty of it sent a shiver through Christina Ortiz.

She trailed behind Hector Ibarra, a lieutenant of the Estrada cartel, farther into the dark railroad tunnel.

No moonlight reached this deep inside the old passageway.

A frigid breeze sliced through her down jacket.

Winters in Montana lasted from October to May.

Up ahead, a set of bright headlights beamed, pointed in the opposite direction, the sole source of illumination.

She caught a whiff of exhaust fumes in the dank air.

A rectangular shape came into view, the back of an idling van parked on the train tracks.

Everything about the situation was off. Wrong.

That was saying a lot, considering she’d been a deep-cover asset embedded in the cartel for the past six years.

She’d encountered her fair share of precarious circumstances but followed strict rules—or what her handler called Alice in the Underworld commandments. In total, there were ten.

Right now, number two came to mind—listen to her gut.

And her gut was screaming. Get out!

Despite every instinct warning her to do so, she couldn’t turn and run. Getting shot in the back was worse than the unknown lurking in the eerie tunnel.

Better to see it coming.

“What are we doing here, Hector?”

Silence was his only response.

Not surprising. Hector had never liked her, or the quick way she’d ascended through their ranks. He had a nasty habit of leering at her with a disturbing mix of lust and hate that made her skin crawl. Not her first choice of Estrada members to follow into an abandoned tunnel.

There were two ways in and out, but she’d only seen one. Neither was good, since both would leave her exposed to gunfire. She needed an exit strategy. Fast.

She stepped on a rotted railroad tie, the lumber breaking, and almost lost her footing. Thankfully, she had on her tactical midboots.

Rule number three, wear footwear she could run in. Even to a black-tie event, which required a little creativity. Some women dressed for fashion. She dressed for survival.

“We drove over an hour to get here.” Christina trod carefully, literally and figuratively. “Is this is going to take long? I’ve got to get up early.”

“Paciencia, abejita,” Hector said, calling her “little bee,” a moniker only he used. “You’re always buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.”

Christina gritted her teeth. Any time a man called her a weird nickname, regardless of the language it was in, it was creepy. Coming from Hector made it doubly so.

She put a hand on her purse, which was large enough to hold a small arsenal and easily concealed her Beretta M9, along with a few other necessities.

Hector had shown up at her apartment in Bozeman close to midnight, hours after her personal bodyguard had left, and insisted she follow him. Not a word about where they were going or why.

It was an order.

She’d taken many from Hector. Orders were always followed, no matter how odd or dangerous. No explanation necessary. Refusal could mean a bullet to the head.

That was the way of the cartel.

But as soon as they’d pulled up to the derelict railroad tunnel in the boondocks, she decided to wear her purse cross-body, unzipped it and switched off the safety on her gun.

Hector glanced at her over his shoulder, but she couldn’t see his eyes in the dim light from the van that wasn’t too far away. “All will be revealed.” The cold grittiness in his voice did nothing to melt the block of ice in the pit of her stomach.

Since she’d agreed to become an FBI asset, fear had been her constant companion. Shaping her words. Guiding her actions. Dictating how much to risk sharing with her handler, Kirk Kehoe, regardless of how hard he pushed for information.

Kirk always wanted more, even though every tip-off put her in jeopardy. What did he care about her future? To him, she was just an asset. A means to an end.

Funny, the special agent who had trapped her in this situation, using her as a tool for his professional ambition, hadn’t been the one to keep her alive for the past six years. It had been fear, and a monster she didn’t want to name.

Many called him La Parca—the Grim Reaper.

A monster who protected her, but that protection had cost her dearly.

Staying about a foot behind Hector, she passed the black cargo van. Music played low in the vehicle, but she made out the sound of something, or someone, rustling around inside.

They rounded the front of the van.

Standing in the light was a guy from Hector’s crew, gun holstered on his hip. He was smoking. Two stamped-out cigarette butts were at his feet. He’d been there waiting for a while. “Finally,” the guy said.

“Go get him.” Hector gestured to the van with his head.

The guy tossed his cigarette down, stepped on it, drew his gun and strode to the side of the vehicle.

She glanced at Hector. He looked older than his forty-five years. Decades of excessive drinking had aged his face, turning his skin closer to dull gray than tan, and his large brown eyes were sunken in. But the harsh light from the van made him appear like a ghoulish toad.

The van door slid open. More rustling as someone tried to speak, voice muffled, like he was wearing a gag. A man was hauled out into the light. Hands restrained behind his back. Hector’s thug shoved the man to his knees.

It was Javier. Her bodyguard.

Christina stiffened as her nerves pinged. “What’s going on?” she asked, straining to keep her voice calm and her expression deadpan.

“He’s a traitor,” Hector said.

On his knees, Javier shook his head, his words garbled by the rag tied around his mouth, his face bruised, like he’d been beaten.

“This is a mistake,” she said. “Javier would never betray the cartel.”

“Give me your gun.” Hector held out his gloved palm.

She reeled back. “What?”

“He’s your bodyguard. Either I use your gun to put him down or you kill him.

” Hector’s palm remained extended while he placed his other hand on the hilt of the .

45 in his shoulder holster. As he stared at her, Christina considered lying, saying she hadn’t brought a weapon.

“I know you’re packing. I don’t believe for a second you left your apartment alone to come with me in the middle of the night without your gun. ”

Kudos to him. He wasn’t wrong.

“Why do you think Javier is a traitor?” she asked, desperate to redirect him.

But Hector stepped toward her, bringing his face so close to hers she smelled the stench of booze and cigarettes on his breath. “Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.” He narrowed his eyes, his expression growing more venomous. “Give me your gun.”

She weighed her options, but there weren’t many, and the ones that existed weren’t good. Hector could draw on her in seconds, and his guy already had a gun at Javier’s head.

Sometimes the cartel threw them into the proverbial fire as a test. Not because they knew anything concrete. It was designed to expose any weak link, or a mole. Someone like her.

Christina had to roll the dice and hope this dreadful scene was a test.

She handed Hector her Beretta. “This is a mistake.” No hint of the fear surging through her showed in her voice.

“He’s a loyal soldier.” They didn’t come more loyal to the cartel than Javier.

A fact that made passing information to her handler not only difficult but also high-risk.

Many times, she’d sacrificed face-to-face conversations for dead drops and brush passes.

“There’s some misunderstanding. We should give him a chance to explain. ”

“We?” Hector sneered. “I don’t need to do anything other than follow orders and kill him.”

Only one person gave Hector orders, El Jefe, the mysterious stateside drug lord who ran Team US—Rio Estrada. But why would he care about her bodyguard?

“There’s no mistake. But let’s hear him out.” Hector gestured to his guy, and the thug removed the gag.

“Listen to her,” Javier said. “I’m not a traitor.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Hector said. “But I have one question. Did you know she was an FBI snitch, or do you just really suck at your job?”

A tightness knotted in her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She slipped her left hand into her coat pocket and clutched her automatic knife, thumb on the push button.

“Christina.” Trembling, Javier stared at her, stark fear etched across his face. “Tell him it isn’t true. You’re not an informant. Can’t be.”

Leveling her Beretta at Javier, Hector looked at her. “Confess and I’ll spare him.”

Javier wasn’t guilty of betraying the cartel, but he also wasn’t innocent. He was a low-level hit man, tasked to protect her, yes, but mostly to watch her. Be the eyes and ears of the Reaper, who’d assigned him.

This was a game for Hector. He had no intention of sparing anyone.

Saving Javier wasn’t possible. She might not even be able to save herself.

“I have nothing to confess.” A solid pause to project faux confidence. “Hector—” She stopped herself from saying please. The word would only provoke him. He was a sadist, and she refused to incite further cruelty. “Don’t do this. You’ll regret it.”

Flashing a grin, Hector put his finger on the trigger and squeezed.

Bang! Bang! He shot Javier in the chest and his body hit the ground.

Pivoting, Hector turned her own gun on her.

Terror spiraled inside Christina, making her dizzy. Instead of raising her hands in mock surrender, she steadied one on her purse while tightening her grip on the blade in her pocket.

“You’ve got this all wrong.” The need to run burned inside every vein. It took all her willpower to stay still, hold his gaze and keep her wits about her. “I’m not an informant.”

“Get the other one,” Hector ordered.

His guy marched back to the van.

Other one?

Moments later, the thug shoved a second man, also gagged and restrained, into the light.

Kirk Kehoe.

A spike of panic punched through her.