Page 51 of Fast Justice

At that Manny opened his eyes and lowered his hand to his lap. It was rare for the shadowy head of the cartel to get involved on that level. “He sent men to assist?”

“A few. Mostly weapons and logistics stuff.”

So thenEl Escorpionwould be briefed directly about the op, and probably knew all the details already. Including the collateral damage and body count.Shit. “Send me a report through the secure channel asap.”

“You got it, boss man.”

Manny glanced out the driver’s side window. This business district of downtown was quiet, people going about their day and not paying him much notice. He basically owned this entire town, and the smaller surrounding ones as well. He paid his people well and gave enough back to the community that every man, woman and child for miles around here considered him a hero philanthropist. He couldn’t afford for them to find out all the things he’d ordered and allowed in order to make and keep that money.

“What about my daughter?” he asked.

“No sign yet. Obviously no financial or social media activity we can use. I’ve got others out using the scanners around the city. Should be able to detect a faint signal from around a kilometer out. If they get a signal on the tracking device, they’ll let me know.”

Manny shoved out a hard breath and started the engine. “Let someone else handle the upcoming operations on Ruiz’s people. The only thing I want you to do is find them and bring my daughter back to me.”

He paused, his heart heavy, an uncomfortable ball of guilt squirming in his belly. If there had been any other way to handle this, he would have. But he was out of options and out of time, so it had to be this. He would contact Arturo and initiate everything. “You know what to do.”

“Looking forward to it, boss man.”

Yeah. That’s what worried him.

Chapter Eighteen

By the time Oceane was on her way back to the new safehouse location—a tidy little bungalow with a green lawn in a residential area of a suburb outside of D.C.—she was mentally and physically exhausted. Two U.S. Marshals rode in the armored SUV with her, a female driver and a male in the backseat with her. Both were armed, and if she’d thought Agent Lockhart was unfriendly, these two were borderline hostile in their demeanors.

The marshals had arrived soon after Lockhart had placed the call to his commander. They hadn’t messed around. Within minutes of them walking in the condo, they rushed her and her mother down to separate vehicles waiting in the underground parking lot, where they’d been blindfolded and driven to this little house. A special arrangement made at the last moment for them.

The U.S. Marshals Service had told her that normally people in the WITSEC program were taken to a kind of orientation center in D.C. where they stayed with other federal witnesses until the trial they were to testify at was over. Then they were given a new life in a different city under carefully constructed aliases.

In her and her mother’s case, that couldn’t happen because of a particular snag. Victoria Gomez was also in WITSEC, at the orientation center, and officials didn’t want them all at the same facility for security reasons. Miss Gomez would be testifying directly against Ruiz in the upcoming trial, whenever that happened, so for now Oceane and her mother were here in this little house.

She’d had just enough time to unpack and get acquainted with the layout of the place before her security detail had whisked her off to DEA headquarters for another meeting, while her mother stayed at the house. The FBI and DEA no longer believed she was involved with the bombing at the law office, but they were pressuring her to help them find Arturo. Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was, and even if she had, she wouldn’t tell them. Arturo was a trusted protector and friend. She wouldn’t turn on him after all he’d done to protect her.

They arrived back at the house around dinnertime. The neighborhood was quiet, only a few young mothers out walking their babies in strollers or kids riding their bikes up the sidewalks. Watching them, Oceane envied their freedom and carefree lives. But there was no point in wallowing in self pity or wishing things could be different, because her situation was fixed now and there was no going back.

She’d lost a lot by coming here, but she and her mother still had each other, and that was the most important thing. That would have to be enough to sustain them both through whatever came at them from here forward.

The driver pulled into the driveway and continued past the house, up to the fence that marked the edge of the backyard. Her mother had wanted to cook dinner rather than order takeout, so they’d arranged for someone to run out and grab the groceries.

Anticipating some good old-fashioned Mexican comfort food, her stomach growled hungrily as the male marshal, Smythe, opened the back door for her. He went to the fence, opened it, and stopped dead. The way he froze sent a burst of alarm through her.

He held out an arm to stop her. “Stay here,” he commanded, and withdrew a pistol from his shoulder holster.

Frightened now, Oceane peered over his shoulder, wide-eyed as he stepped through into the backyard while his partner rushed up behind her, weapon drawn, and set a restraining hand on her shoulder. The back door to the house was open, sagging crookedly on its hinges.

One of the marshals tasked with protecting her mother lay facedown on the grass, arms flung out.

She sucked in a sharp breath, started to turn toward the female marshal behind her, but the gasp turned into a horrified cry as the ruined door flung open and her mother appeared in it, naked, blood dripping down her body from what looked like numerous knife wounds.

Her dark brown eyes were wide, glazed with terror and pain, but they locked on Oceane. “Corres,” she yelled, her voice desperate, filled with a frantic urgency that raised the hair on Oceane’s arms.

Run.

Oceane’s scream was cut short as Smythe charged back to the fence, grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. She fought him, clawed at his restraining hands, needing to see what was happening with her mother.

A series of gunshots behind her shattered the soft evening air.

Wrenching her head around, Oceane cast a desperate glance over her shoulder in time to see a man burst out of the house holding a pistol. The female marshal fired. The man fell, clutching his chest. The female marshal was down too, and Oceane’s mother had fallen into a bloody heap on the grass.

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