As evening came and went, his tension grew. If dawn came without an appearance from Montilla, he’d have to re-examine his supposition that Trees was the traitor. Until then, he’d operate on the premise that any intruder who wanted to steal stuff broke in during the day; anyone who wanted to kill crept in at night. And he’d act accordingly.
So after ignoring hordes of inconvenient trick-or-treaters, One-Mile turned off the interior lights just before midnight and stuffed pillows under the covers in Valeria’s bed. He snatched an oblong throw pillow off the sofa and set it under one of the remaining baby blankets in the abandoned crib.
If Montilla came, he’d kill Valeria before he took the baby, but on the off chance he wanted to get a look at his son before he offed the boy’s mother, One-Mile would be ready.
Until then…his thoughts turned to Brea. Nothing new from her today. Was she busy at work? Had her father had another relapse? Was she thinking about their last evening together? He wished he knew, but it was too late to disturb her now. And he had to keep focus.
Bathed in darkness and attuned to the still, One-Mile waited. If there was one thing a good sniper needed, it was patience. In the rest of his life, he hated waiting for anything. But when it came to ending scum bags, he could drag that shit out forever as long as it meant bagging his target.
Sure enough, a little after two a.m., he heard the jiggle of the handle at the back door. Figuring that was Montilla’s most likely entry point, he’d taken the string of cans off the knob. No reason to let the enemy know he was onto him.
Instead, he melted into the shadows in the adjacent hall and peeked into the living room. After a little more rattling and a few clicks, the knob turned. The door swept open.
Montilla ducked in—alone.
He glanced at the baby swing and toys in the corner where Valeria had left them, then crept through the family room.
Wearing a ghost of a smile, Montilla tiptoed straight for the master bedroom—something he could only do if he knew the layout of the house. And he could only know that if Trees had passed on the schematic.
That motherfucker.
But he’d deal with the back-stabbing giant later. Now was all about taking off the head of the snake.
Once Montilla entered the bedroom, One-Mile slipped out of the shadows and crept across the floor toward him.
His heart revved. He gritted his teeth and put a chokehold on his fury. God, he’d love to raise his gun and double-tap the slimy son of a bitch. It sucked that he couldn’t.
A few feet in front of him, the drug lord eased toward the bed, bare hands outstretched menacingly, then yanked back the blankets on the big bed. “Get ready to die, bitch!”
“Sorry. You get me instead.” Before Montilla could whirl and attack, One-Mile smacked the drug lord on the head with the butt of his weapon. The sadistic bastard crumpled to the ground.
Time to take this fucker down a few notches…
Yes, he should just call the cops and wait for them to come arrest Montilla. But where was the fun in that?
Besides, he’d come so far and given the silent bird to so many people just to have a few minutes of quality time with this fucking asswipe. One-Mile intended to enjoy every moment.
He withdrew a blade from his pocket and cut off Montilla’s shirt. Then, with a smile, he hogtied the son of a bitch—one of the many useful skills his granddad had taught him during his summers in Wyoming—and hauled him to the bathtub, setting him facedown. He closed the tub’s stopper and flipped on the cold water.
Montilla came up howling and sputtering in the dark. “Son of a bitch! Who are you? What do you want?”
“Shut the fuck up and listen, Emilo. First, you’re never getting your hands on Valeria or Laila again. I’ve made damn sure of that. Second, I owe you for the sparkling hospitality you showed me in Mexico.”
“Walker?” When One-Mile flipped on the glaring overhead light, Montilla turned his head and met his gaze with a scowl. “Let me go, and I might allow you to live.”
“I don’t think so, you lying sack of shit. You almost killed me the first time. But I’m going to be a nice guy and show you a little mercy. Not much…but you’ll live. I think. If not? Oops.”
With a chuckle, he splashed water across Montilla’s back, dipped the sponge-cushioned clamps of jumper cables under the tub’s spray, then hauled the car battery he’d procured near his feet. Finally, he attached the cables to the top of the power source.
As he leaned in, Montilla’s eyes went wide. “No!”
“Oh, yeah.” He laid the wet sponges coursing with electric current against Montilla’s ribs.
The asshole jolted, bowed, and screamed before he sniveled and begged.
After a satisfying series of uncontrolled twitches and a hint of burning flesh, One-Mile lifted the jumper cables away. “Are we clear?”
Montilla panted. “I will kill you.”
“Those are big words for a guy with his wrists attached to his ankles behind his back. Besides, you’re on US soil now, motherfucker. I’m sure the feds would be very interested in knowing your location…”
Montilla spit at him, his eyes full of fire and hate. “Killing is too good for you. I will capture your family and torture them slowly until they die like the pleading, whimpering dogs they are.”
“Wow. That sounds really dramatic. I’ll bet that threat usually works well—on other people. Me? Sorry. I don’t have any family.”
“Every man has a weakness. I will find those you hold dear and—”
One-Mile jabbed the wet jumper cables against his ribs again and listened to Montilla scream. “Shut up. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that acting like a dick won’t make yours bigger?”
After a few more seconds of uncontrollable jolting and hair burning, One-Mile retracted the
