on Eleanora’s face while I use my free hand to peel the tape from her mouth.

The girl releases a half sob, tears now fleeing her eyes.

“Gracias. Gracias. Gracias.”

Her voice is too loud, and I take the penlight from my mouth and tell her in Spanish to be quiet.

The girl says in Spanish, “Please untie me—please!”

I intend to—I even bite down on the penlight again to use my free hand to unclip the SOG from my belt—but before I press the button to release the blade I pause again. Go very still. Hold my breath.

Eleanora says, “What are you doing?”

I jerk my head back and forth, the penlight’s beam going left to right across her face, but the girl doesn’t seem to get my meaning.

She sucks in air to ask the question again, but by then I’ve pressed the duct tape back over her mouth.

Her eyes go wide, and she tries to shout again through the tape.

I clip the SOG back on my belt, take the penlight from between my teeth, and lean in close to the girl to whisper.

“Quiet.”

The girl goes silent, confused, and I whisper again as I flick off the penlight, shrouding us in darkness.

“Can’t you hear that?”

The girl’s still silent, making it even more possible to hear the approaching sound of an engine and tires crunching dirt outside.

“Somebody’s coming.”

Fourteen

The vehicle stops. Its engine shuts off. Two doors open.

I don’t see the men step out—not from where I am in the shed, having shut the side door so we’re enveloped in darkness—but I imagine it’s the two from last night. The driver has on the same cowboy hat, the badge still displayed proudly on his belt.

A murmur of voices outside—the men conferring—and then the sound of boots scuffing the dirt as they approach the shed.

It could be the police or FBI, following up on Leila’s call, but it’s doubtful. It could be a nearby rancher, or the person who owns this oil field, come to check the equipment. I didn’t notice any alarm system, but maybe something got tripped. Still doubtful. It seems Occam’s razor applies best here—whatever is the simplest explanation is probably the right one, hence the men outside are the same ones who killed Juana last night.

One of the men jiggles the padlock on the large door, while the other shuffles over to the side door.

The one closer to the side door calls out.

“Over here.”

The one playing with the padlock leaves it be and hurries over to his partner.

A moment passes, and then the door pushes open, and I can see the man in the cowboy hat from last night standing just outside. He has a gun in his hand, a flashlight in his other hand.

I’m stationed on the other side of the tractor, crouched behind the overlarge wheel, the 1911 aimed at the door. From this angle, I have a clean shot at the cowboy. A slight squeeze of the trigger, and it’ll be lights out. But if I do that, I’ll alert his partner, and I don’t like the idea of his partner being outside while I’m trapped in here with Eleanora. Best to wait until they both enter, take the two of them out together, one after the other.

The cowboy doesn’t enter. He stands at the threshold and sweeps his flashlight through the room. I have to duck when the beam comes my way, and I close my eyes for a beat, steady my breathing, my heartbeat.

That’s when Eleanora can’t contain herself any longer, and lets out a frightened cry.

It’s mostly muffled by the duct tape, but at once the flashlight beam jerks in her direction.

The cowboy says, “Holy shit, there she is.”

There’s something about how he says it—almost with surprise—that makes me frown, but before I can think too much about it, the cowboy steps inside.

His partner doesn’t.

He says, “Let me see if I can get that generator going.”

The partner drifts away. I track him from the sound of his footsteps on the dirt outside the shed, and I consider firing at him through the wood. At least the cowboy is already inside; I could easily pivot and take him out, too. But it’s still near pitch-black, and I would be aiming at the cowboy’s flashlight which isn’t a reliable target.

Better to wait for the lights to come on, if that’s what’s going to happen. For the partner to step inside so I’ll have both of them in one place.

The cowboy doesn’t wait for the generator. He moves forward, the flashlight beam trained on Eleanora’s face.

She has her eyes closed, flinching at the bright light, and she’s sobbing again, the tears falling down her face, and the cowboy murmurs as he approaches her—“Don’t worry, darlin’, we’re gonna take real good care of you”—and the way he says it, the smarmy tone of his voice, makes me squeeze the 1911’s grip so tight I’m afraid I might snap it in half.

I won’t let the cowboy place one finger on Eleanora, I decide, but I can’t do anything until his partner joins him in the shed.

The cowboy’s close to her, his voice going even lower.

“You ever get fucked by an American? A whole hell of a lot better than those wetbacks you’re used to back home.”

Outside, the partner cranks the generator’s starter cord—once, twice—and it’s on the third time that the thing roars to life and a few dim bulbs in the shed’s ceiling begin to flicker on.

The cowboy pauses, tilts his face up to the ceiling, and lets out a whistle.

“That right there—that’s a sign from the good Lord Almighty. He approves of what we’re about to do to you.”

Eleanora keeps sobbing, but her eyes are open now, wide in terror, and it’s her eyes that give me away.

They shift, just slightly, enough for the cowboy to turn to find me running at him, the 1911 in my right hand, the opened SOG in my left, and the cowboy spins and fires at me right as I fire at him. His

Вы читаете Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3
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