She didn’t hesitate. She simply pressed her hand over the bloody rag and watched sweat run down Hunter’s face. And tears. She doubted he even knew it, any more than he knew he was cursing and praying nonstop under his breath as his hands went gently, quickly over his friend.
“He took another one, more a burn than anything else,” Hunter said. “A third wound is clean, just muscle. Is he still breathing?”
“Slow, but there.”
Something dripped off Lina’s chin. Vaguely she realized she was crying, too. It was better than the screams that wanted to rip through her throat.
Hunter’s hand covered her bloody one. Together they kept pressure on the wound and listened to electronic wails that suddenly stopped on the street outside. Emergency lights flashed in the gloom. The sound of vehicle doors and powerful engines idling, running feet. Spotlights glared, casting stark, conflicting shadows.
Lina flinched.
“It’s okay,” Hunter said. “These are the good guys.”
“Yes.” But that didn’t stop her from shuddering at the sound of shoes slapping concrete, rushing toward them.
“When they question you, you don’t know anything except that Jase wanted a tour of a high-end pre- Columbian artifact gallery, so I brought him to you.” Hunter’s voice was low, cold. “I’ll talk to ICE myself. Got that?”
She glanced at his drawn, grim face. “Yes. Gallery. That’s all I know.”
He turned to the men rushing up. Some had weapons drawn, but they were pointed at the floor.
“Man down,” Hunter said. “Bleeding bad. Let those med-techs through now!”
Being talked to in their own language reassured the cops. The guns disappeared.
“Any unsecured weapons?” asked one of the cops.
“One on the floor of the van,” Hunter said. “The wounded man is with ICE.”
“Any other wounded?”
“No.”
“You’re both bloody.”
“Jase’s blood,” Lina said, her voice strained.
Someone passed a signal and the med-techs pushed through to the van. Very quickly Jase was hooked to an IV, field-dressed, and loaded into an ambulance for a screaming ride to the hospital.
“His wife is pregnant and he has two small kids,” Hunter said. “She should be with him.”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“Now,” Hunter said. “After you’re done questioning us might be too late.”
The cop started to object, then looked at Hunter’s face and the blood that covered him.
The officer’s partner said to Hunter, “Give me her number. You ICE, too?”
“Not anymore.”
As soon as he had Jase’s home number, the second officer withdrew. Other officers scattered out to secure the crime scene and question everyone who had been crazy enough to hang around after the shooting started.
“What happened?” asked the first cop. “You first, ma’am. Begin with your full name.”
Lina answered that question and the following ones while leaning against Jase’s van. Hunter and another cop with an agenda walked fifty feet away and began the Q-and-A process. When crime-scene techs asked Lina to move, she and her questioner went to a pillar beyond the yellow tape that was being strung around the parking garage like some kind of perverse Christmas wrap.
“How long have you known Agent Jason Beaumont?” the officer asked without a pause.
“I don’t really know him. He’s Hunter’s friend. We came to the gallery so that Mr. Beaumont could get a feel for what’s available in the high-end artifact market.”
“How long have you known Hunter Johnston?”
Lina was on the hard downward spiral of an adrenaline jag, and she had answered all the questions at least three times. A fourth time was twice too many.
“As I’ve told you many times,” she said, her tone as impatient as she felt, “Mr. Johnston has audited several of my classes over the last year. We’ve had coffee and conversation. Now, if you don’t have any new questions for me, I’m exhausted and would like to at least wash my hands.”
Hunter must have reached the same point in the questioning process because he was striding through the various remaining cops toward her. He was close enough that he heard her last sentence.
“Unless you’re going to arrest us,” Hunter said, “we’re leaving. She’s a civilian and she’s kept it together better than anyone has a right to expect. She needs to chill, not to be grilled.”
“You know that we’re required—” began the cop.
“To ask questions,” Hunter cut in. “Once, twice, fine. Three times because you’re pissed. Now you’re just wasting our time.”
“With what you’ve given us, there’s not much chance of catching the shooter,” the cop snarled.
“No shit. Now let us leave or read us our rights.”
Someone with higher rank moved in. “Thank you for your cooperation,” she said to Hunter and Lina. “If we make any arrests, we’ll need you to identify the suspect or suspects.”
“You can reach me on my cell phone,” Hunter said.
“You have my cell number,” Lina said wearily.
“Your cooperation is appreciated,” the woman said, smiling professionally.
Hunter and the cops all knew that devils would be ice-skating in hell before there was any arrest. If the SUV was found on this side of the border, it would be stripped, likely reported stolen. Every description of the occupants boiled down to short, swarthy, and similar. More
The description was useless for catching anything but overtime.
Hunter nodded to the cops, took Lina’s arm, and led her to his Jeep. It had escaped the bullets. The Mercedes parked in the next slot over hadn’t been as lucky. The rear window was blown into thousands of grainy, sparkling pieces.
Before Lina had fastened her seat belt, Hunter called the hospital Jase had been taken to, only to be told that Jason Beaumont was none of his business. Swearing, he called Ali’s cell number.
“It’s Hunter,” he said as soon as she picked up. “How is Jase?”
“In surgery,” Ali said, her voice raw. “He won’t be out for—hours. It’s—very serious.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
A hot darkness wrapped around the Jeep as it nosed out of the garage into traffic. Christmas lights sparkled everywhere in storefronts. Lina felt like she was dreaming.
“Your apartment is closer,” Hunter said.
Lina shivered. “Yes.”
“Cold?”
“No.”
“Hang on, sweetheart. I’ll get you home.”
“No,” she said tightly. “I can’t go there. Those men were after me.”
“What?” Hunter said, giving her a fast look.
“They were speaking in a Mayan dialect. They wanted me.”
Hunter’s eyes searched surrounding traffic and the driving mirrors with quick glances. “You sure?”
“I grew up with Spanish and English as my primary languages. The Mayan dialect those men spoke was my third language. My great-grandmother prefers it, though she speaks Spanish very well. In case you didn’t catch it, the driver only spoke Spanish. He knew Jase was a cop.”
“I got that.” Hunter wove through traffic, checking mirrors, watching for any vehicle matching his maneuvers. “What did the others say?”
“They screamed at the shooter not to hurt me or El Maya would eat their balls and tear out the heart of every living relative they had.”
Hunter’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that a usual curse?”
