8. Vaughn
8
VAUGHN
W e pulled up across the road from Javi’s. Parked out front was a narco pickup—a modified Ranger with a roll cage, bench seating in the bed, and an M60 mounted up top on a swivel frame.
The streets were quiet. Too quiet for midmorning. The town wasn’t busy this time of year, but there were always people going about their business.
Hope and I exited the car, and I tucked my pistols into the back of my jeans. A short, sharp whistle drew my attention to a figure in an alleyway. The man wore a cowboy hat and held a shotgun.
“That’s Javi,” Hope said.
He took one hand from his weapon, pointed to the door of the restaurant, then made the symbols for five and one.
Six narcos inside, then.
I nodded and scanned the surrounding area. There were an additional four townspeople, armed and taking cover in nearby alcoves and behind parked cars. Good. Having backup outside would be helpful in case trouble spilled onto the sidewalk .
We strode across the street toward the restaurant. “The revolver stowed behind the bar. Is it loaded?” I asked.
“Yeah. Assuming these assholes haven’t found it already.”
She had a point.
“Let’s hope not. If bullets start flying, get behind the counter and see if you can find it. Stay down, and if anyone comes for you that isn’t me, shoot them.”
I checked my watch. Nine minutes and thirty-two seconds since the phone call had ended. We were early.
I walked through the door and immediately clocked six Tangos. Three standing near a couple of hostages in the corner, one by the bar, another blocking the beach exit, and one smug-as-fuck asshole sitting casually at a table in the back of the restaurant. My fucking table. He sipped beer from a bottle while a lit cigarette rested in an ashtray.
There were already five weapons trained on me. The wielders weren’t anything like the untested youths I’d sent packing a week ago. Their hands were steady and their stances relaxed. These men were blooded and wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger if I so much as sneezed.
With Hope following, I strutted into the restaurant as if I owned the place. Nothing threw people like swagger. It made them wonder why you were so confident. What did you know that they didn’t? In this case, a fuck of a lot.
They didn’t know my skills. They didn’t know my passion for eliminating oxygen thieves like them. And they didn’t know the lengths I’d go to to protect Hope.
“No te acerques más.” Don’t come any closer, said the forty-something man seated at the table. I assumed he was the butt-hurt Papa Bear I’d spoken to earlier. He leaned back in his chair, showing me the Desert Eagle tucked into the front of his waistband.
I paused and raised my palms. “There’s no need for hostility. We’re on the same team. ”
“Oh yeah?” He stroked his gray-streaked beard. “And whose team is that?”
“I move product for la Mano Roja. In fact, I’ve just come from a meeting with el Capitán. Miguel is an old friend of mine, and I can guarantee you he’ll be very unhappy to hear that the PCC is giving one of his pilots grief over a minor disagreement.” I pointed to the phone in my front pocket. “His number is in my contacts.”
Papa Bear’s dark eyes raked over me, perhaps deciding if I was telling the truth. “Lay your weapons behind the bar.”
There was a fifty-fifty chance that if I pulled my Glocks and started firing, I could kill every one of these assholes in the next two seconds. But standing here in the middle of the restaurant meant I was exposed, and so was Hope. I wouldn’t risk her getting shot. So I leaned over the bar to stow my pistols, hoping I could talk our way out of this mess. As I did, I spotted a woman’s body sprawled before the low refrigerator. Slight frame. Dark hair matted in the pool of blood surrounding her skull. It was Mari.
Fuck .
Beside me, Hope made a pained whimper when she noticed her friend. I gave a sharp shake of my head, urging her not to react.
With my weapons off-loaded, the goons lowered theirs.
Mistake number one.
“Sit.” Papa Bear kicked out the empty chair opposite him.
“Stay here, Gatita.” I pointed to the stool at the end of the bar. If shit got crazy, it would give Hope the fastest route to take cover behind the counter.
I made my way to Papa Bear at a leisurely pace and slumped into the chair he’d offered. Without asking, I snatched up the pack of Marlboros on the table, removed a cigarette, and lit it.
Menthol. Disgusting .
Papa Bear’s eye twitched. “You sidelined four of my men.”
Men? They were overgrown teenagers.
I clicked my tongue and slung my arm over the backrest. “I did you a favor.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Those kids are green as fuck. They came in here being little pricks. All I did was teach them a lesson. Maybe it’ll toughen them up.”
“My boy’s shoulder is ruined. He needs surgery.” His tone rose at my insolence.
I shrugged because I didn’t give a shit about his brat of a kid. “Yeah, but I could’ve killed them all.”
Papa Bear sneered, and I supposed that was his way of conceding my point. “I want compensation.”
I inhaled another drag. “How much?”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “This debt needs to be paid in blood.”
“Come on, man.” I blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “You killed the girl. You’ve gotten the blood you came for.”
From the corner of the room, a hostage sobbed, but I didn’t look away from the fool before me.
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “She wasn’t the one who stabbed my son.”
“Already told you, el Capitán will be pissed if anything happens to me.”
“I’m not talking about you.” He glanced toward Hope. “The scarred bitch is the one who started this. All she had to do was serve drinks like she’s paid to, and no one would’ve gotten hurt.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Hope stiffen on the barstool.
Red-hot fury flared inside me. I didn’t let it show. To this bastard, I looked utterly unfazed by his comment. Little did he know he’d just booked himself and his pals a fast pass to a dirt nap. I wouldn’t tolerate a disrespectful word against Hope, let alone a death threat.
Mistake number two.
I arched one brow and inclined my head toward Hope. “You want her?”
He nodded. “That’s my price.”
I butted out my cigarette in the ashtray. Lowering my chin, I let a sinister grin spread across my lips. “You really should’ve picked something else.”
I launched myself over the table. Papa Bear only had a split second to register his shock before I hooked my arm around his neck and tackled him to the floor. I rolled us, positioning myself underneath while locking him in a rear choke hold. With his back to my chest, he made a halfway decent bulletproof vest made of meat.
He clawed at my arms, desperate for air. The dumbass didn’t realize he’d already taken his last breath.
In one seamless movement, I removed the Desert Eagle from the front of his waistband and fired two rounds into the goon by the bar.
Chest. Head. Lights out.
Next came the asshole by the beach exit.
Pop. Pop. Another down.
Then all hell broke loose. Shouts rang out. A woman screamed. None of it disturbed my laser-sharp focus.
The remaining narcos dove for cover behind tables and chairs. Papa Bear’s squirming grew bothersome, and I really needed to get up from the floor, so I pressed the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Three down.
The last three guys took too long to realize their boss was nothing more than a sack of flesh. They should be shooting at me already.
I rolled to the side, using Papa Bear’s body as a shield. When a Tango peered over a table, I nailed him between the eyes.
Then bullet after bullet slammed into the lifeless corpse protecting me.