Hunt Her Down (35 page)

please don’t hurt him. Do anything to me.
Anything.
Kill me, I don’t care. Please . . .” Her

words mixed with sobs as Sancere yanked her backward.

Quinn stood absolutely still, silent tears pouring down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” She looked at Viejo. “Please— God, please don’t hurt him. Viejo!”

She screamed the last word as Sancere threw her into a hallway, his gun still in her back, her

arm twisted so far that white dots of pain flashed before her eyes.

Sweat rolled down Dan’s temples and back, blinding him as he crawled between the coffee

plants to spot the white van at the top of the hill. They’d left a lookout with a rifle, which

confirmed his suspicions. Maggie was in there, and possibly Quinn.

He knew a way in now, but to get there without being seen by the guard, he’d have to go

the long way, per Lola’s directions.

He crouched low between two rows of plants. When the rifleman turned the other way, he

ran in the opposite direction, careful not to rustle a leaf in the silence that hung over the hills.

He didn’t stop until he’d circled a quarter of a mile, and could see the back of the hacienda.

The office was in the back, Lola said, running the entire length of the house. There were

bedrooms on the sides, and a main room in the front. The balcony, designed to look out over

the entire plantation, was built out of the roof in the front, reached by circular outdoor stairs

on the side of the house. And if Lola was telling the truth, there was access from the balcony

into the attic, built into the roof tiles.

Getting up there without being seen would be the trick. He’d never make it up the stairs

unobserved. But if he crossed the roof from the back, he could drop onto the balcony and then

sneak into the house.

He crawled, flat to the ground, toward the covered porch, scanning the windows and

listening for any sounds.

Silence.

When he reached the porch he slithered up, staying well below any windows, which were

closed tight in the air-conditioned house, as Lola had told him they would be. They were also

locked, along with the one door into the house, all with multiple dead bolts. The office looked

deserted when he peered in, so he hoisted himself onto the windowsill and grabbed hold of the

thick decorative wood trim at the top, pulling himself up without a noise.

Using a wooden window divider as a foothold, he reached up to the gutter and pulled

himself higher, getting his other foot on the top of the window. The gutter bent under his

weight, but he made it onto the roof and started working his way over the hot terra-cotta

barrel tiles. Even this early in the morning, they scorched his hands and warmed through his

clothes.

Dan crested the roof peak and looked down at the balcony. He’d be in the guard’s view for

about a minute, so he’d have to move fast before the guard turned. He scooted across the roof

tiles and a loose one slipped, scraping downward until Dan snagged it, just before it could

tumble and crash below.

The guard jumped off the van but didn’t turn.

Dan held the wayward tile in one hand, and gripped for his life with the other. He couldn’t

pull out his weapon even if he wanted to take a shot. But the guard stared down the driveway

in the opposite direction.

Dan risked moving again, still holding the tile, finishing the crawl one-handed. But he

made it, reaching between the curved wooden balustrades to silently place the tile on its side.

Then he hoisted himself over the railing and landed right on the spot Lola had promised

would get him into the house.

There was the small door, a crawl-through to an attic. He pressed one side but nothing

happened. Then the other side, and the door slipped open.

Score one for Lola.

He crawled partway into the dark attic, using the light from the small opening to scan the

floor. Where was the hatch above the closet? As he pulled his whole body through, the door

closed behind him and eliminated all the light. He turned to reopen it, giving a good shove,

but it had jammed shut. Just as he thrust his shoulder into it, a scream of pure, raw despair

penetrated the attic and sliced through him.

Maggie
.

One wrong step, one noise, and he’d give himself away. And Maggie, already screaming

for her life, would be dead.

MAGGIE WAILED, INCAPABLE of staying calm. What would that monster do to Quinn?

Joel threw her into a bedroom, slamming the door and shoving her so hard she reeled.

“Shut up. You won’t hear what’s happening out there.” “I don’t want to hear!” she

screamed, throwing herself at him, ready to face his gun to save her son. He easily knocked

her back, the impact throwing her onto the bed.

He stood over her, broad, thick, and far too muscular for her to possibly fight, pointing the

gun at her. Did he think she cared that he could kill her? It would just put her out of her

misery.

From the living room she heard a thud, and Quinn yelled.

She closed her eyes and stifled a cry of her own; then Joel’s knee jammed between her legs.

He waved the gun up and down over her body.

“It could have been me, you know.”

What was he talking about?

“Who got to fuck the girlfriend. One of us had to.”

She clenched the bedspread to keep from punching his face with hatred. It would only cost

her. She closed her eyes and tried to hear Quinn.

“We flipped a coin, and of course Gallagher won.” He kneed her harder, right in the crotch.

“Thought he liked you, didn’t you? Thought he was so enamored with your spiky hair and all

your earrings that he just couldn’t keep his hands off you?”

She turned her head, willing him to stop, waiting for the next sound from Quinn.

He froze the gun right over her heart, just as Quinn yelped.
What was happening to him?

“We laughed our asses off, too, cause neither of us really wanted to stick it to the skinny

teenager with no tits.” He rubbed the gun over her breasts.

Vomit rose but she swallowed, refusing to let him know he could make her sick. If he raped

her, he’d lose control. Then she’d get the gun, kill him, and save Quinn.

He replaced the gun with his other hand, cupping her breast. “That Gallagher knows just

what to say to women. Fucking world-class liar. Bet he told you he likes ‘em small.”

She refused to react, but that just made him squeeze harder. “They’re a little bigger now,

but still not in Gallagher’s league. Bet he fed you some good lines these past few weeks—told

you how he couldn’t resist you, how he had to have you, no matter what the risk right under

Ramon’s nose. Did he Maggie? Did he shovel that bullshit on you again?”

She just stared at him. Her heart ached. Her body ached. Her soul ached. All for her son.

Did Sancere think this could make it any worse?

“Or did you believe him, Maggie?” He gripped her so hard, pain shot straight through to

her head. “Did you believe that he risked his life just to fuck you in that shed? Did you?”

She bit her lip and tasted blood.

“Did you fall for it again, Maggie?” He was so close, she could smell his stale, hot breath.

“Did you? Tell me!” He dug his fingers deeper.

She refused to react, refused to give him the satisfaction.

“He didn’t even like you, you know that? You were
work,
sweetheart. A means to an end.

Don’t you know that?”

He ripped her shirt up, exposing her, staring at her, his lips quivering.

Quinn hollered, louder this time. And oddly hollow. She’d heard him scream in pain before,

but this was different. This was unreal. Oh
God,
this wasn’t happening.

“You think he really wanted you?” Sancere spat on her bare breast. “He could have anyone,

that son of a bitch. You think he’d want a runaway whore like you?”

Maggie closed her eyes and thought about Quinn as a toddler. A baby. She should have told

Dan more about their child before he died. Before they all died.

“He
had
to fuck you so you’d tell him everything we needed to know.”

Please, Baba, please make this stop
.

“It was his
job
.” He slammed her legs open with his knees and pushed his crotch against

her. She was no match for his weight and power, crushed as he yanked at her hair so hard she

felt it separate from her scalp. “We flipped a coin.”

Then she heard another thud, closer. Above them? Did he drop his gun?

“Heads you get her . . .” He ground his body against her as he growled out the words. “Tails

I get her. You know what he said when he won the flip?”

She just closed her eyes.

“He said, ‘I lost the toss, Joel.’ He lost and
had
to fuck you for the family secrets.” He

started to laugh, a vicious, low growl. “That’s right. He
lost
.”

Another thump. Was that in the closet? In the room? She pushed against Sancere with all

her strength, but it was useless.

“He lost.” He slammed his body against hers.

“He
lost
.” Something crashed behind him.

“He lo—”

Suddenly, he was off her, lifted like a rag doll. Maggie blinked at the unexpected reprieve,

opening her eyes and seeing . . .

Dan
. He hoisted Joel up with one hand and cracked his fist in his face with the other. As he

doubled over, Dan ripped out his gun and aimed it right at his heart.

“You sickening little worm.” Dan put the gun at his forehead. “Tell her you’re lying!”

Maggie rolled off the bed and dove for the door. “Quinn!” The door was locked from the

outside. Frantic, she shook the handle.

“Tell her, you son of a bitch!” Dan demanded.

“Dan!” she screamed. “Quinn’s out there. Viejo’s torturing him!”

Dan shoved Sancere onto the bed, taking his gun. “Here.” He held it out to her, pinning

Sancere with his knee and pistol. “Shoot off the lock.”

She held the weapon in two hands and tried to squeeze, but it was nothing like her .22.

Grunting, she used both index fingers, pulling as hard as she could on the trigger.

“I . . . can’t . . . do . . . it.”

Dan was next to her in one step and grabbed the gun in his left hand, never taking his eye or

his own gun off Sancere, and blew the lock off.

She threw the door open and lunged into the living room to see . . . nothing.

“Quinn!” she screamed. “Where are you?”

She heard a shot, and froze in horror, then realized it came from behind her, where she’d

left Dan with a gun on Sancere.

All she could do was stare at a pool of blood, rich and red and fresh, spilled over the orange

tile floor. She put her hands up to her mouth and screamed. “Quinn!”

His mom’s scream sent shivers through Quinn—but nothing like what the crazy old man was

doing. Freaking killing himself, and making him watch!

Every time he looked away or closed his eyes, the crazed Viejo picked up a gun and aimed

it at Quinn.

“Mira esto, muchacho!”
What did that mean? Watch me, boy?

The guy slipped deeper into Spanish with every cut into his own wrists, telling Quinn to

scream as he forced him into another room and locked the door.

Now Quinn sat here, trapped by a flesh-cutting lunatic standing over him.

“You make me bleed,
cabrón!
” Viejo growled. “Your bastard blood makes my heart bleed.”

“I’m sorry,” Quinn managed, tearfully. “I’m really sorry. But, please. My mom—”

Warm blood dripped onto Quinn’s torn sleep pants, and above him, the old man brandished

the knife.

“Scream for her,” he hissed. “Make her writhe in pain, like she gave me.”

Quinn just stared, dumbfounded at all the blood.

“Scream! Loud!” The knife grazed his neck.

Oh,
shit
. He gave it his best holler, trying to sound like he was in pain.

“Not good enough!” Viejo pressed the tip harder.

“Okay, okay!” Quinn let out a wail he thought matched his mom’s.

That satisfied Viejo for a second. “Now you watch me die.”

“No. Please, no.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“You were going to be the heir to all of this.” The old man waved the knife around.

“Ramon’s son. My grandson.
Why aren’t you my grandson?
” He screamed the question in

Quinn’s face.

Wasn’t
he Ramon’s son? Mom was pregnant, and he was her boyfriend . . .

Quinn’s hands gripped the armrest.
Just die, you old rotten bastard. Let me go
.

“I’m so sorry. Please. Don’t kill yourself.” Although that was better than killing Quinn.

“So now your father is dead, too.”

Quinn nodded, pressing back into the chair to escape the blood flowing from the wounds.

Oh God, let this be over. Let this be a nightmare
.

“Did you see him die? Did you see the bullet go into his chest?”

His dad—a bullet? Not the Ramon guy, then who? Smitty? He’d say anything to get this

guy off him. “My dad wasn’t shot. He had a brain tumor.”

The old man jerked up, the sudden move making him sway. “Your
real
father. That bastard

FBI narc.”

“Him?” Quinn pointed to the other room in horror. “The guy who kidnapped me?’

The man choked a dry laugh. “No, the one who lies dead in my warehouse. Gallagher.”

Dan Gallagher
was his father?

The sound of a gunshot rocked the house, and Quinn jumped up as another shriek echoed.