Page 52 of Fast Justice

“Mami!” She screamed it, the word exploding from her as she struggled to tear free from Smythe. He tackled her to the ground and pinned her beneath him, issuing rapid orders via his earpiece.

A sound of rage and grief tore from her as she twisted and fought to get away. “Let me go! I need to get to my mother!” She was lying there just meters away, bleeding, helpless.

“Don’t move,” he ground out, and squashed her flat beneath his weight, rattling off more commands.

Running footsteps sounded to her left. Smythe swung around, raised his weapon and fired just as an armed man wearing a hoodie appeared around the side of the house.

More shots rang out. Bullets pinged off the side of the SUV, inches from where she and Smythe lay on the ground. He grunted but didn’t move. She gasped and covered her head with her arms, heart rocketing into her throat. Where were the other marshals? Were they all dead?

Smythe fired again, and the attacker’s footsteps stopped. A quiet thud sounded, followed by a low groan.

Before Oceane could raise her head to see what had happened, Smythe hauled her to her knees and dragged her behind the cover of the side of the SUV. He reached up to fumble with the door handle, his breathing labored, and when she glanced down she saw blood running out from beneath the fingers he pressed to his side.

“Get in,” he rasped, giving her a shove. “It’s armored. Stay down and don’t move until I say otherwise.”

“No, my mother—”

“I’m going to her. Lock the doors anddon’t move.”

She almost crawled across the seat and bolted out the other door, but there might be more attackers and Smythe would just chase her down, wasting precious time he could be using to help her mother. Shaking, fighting back frightened tears, she lay sideways on the leather bench seat and closed her eyes, listening, praying…

Please, God. Please don’t take my mother from me. I can’t bear it. Not that.

She prayed it over and over, her lips moving, teeth chattering at the sudden blast of ice freezing her insides. She wasn’t sure how long she lay like that. Minutes. Hours. Then sirens screamed in the distance, getting nearer.

Oceane sat up, stared through the windshield toward the backyard. The gate was open but there was no sign of Smythe, and no one else was around.

Heart pounding, she climbed into the front seat because the rear doors couldn’t be unlocked from the inside, opened it and slid out. Her knees almost gave way when her feet hit the grass.

On wobbly legs she hurried to the gate, kept her back to it as she darted a glance into the yard. Smythe was on his knees beside her mother, who was sprawled out on her back, head lolling to the side, facing Oceane. He’d stripped off his jacket and shirt, using them to try and staunch the bleeding from the knife wounds.

Her mother’s pain-filled dark eyes focused on her, a flare of relief flashing through them. “Oceane…” she managed weakly.

Smythe jerked his head up, let out a snarled curse when he saw her standing there. “Get back into the vehicle,now.”

Ignoring him, not caring what he did to her, she rushed to her mother’s side and dropped to her knees to grip the limp hand in hers. “Mami,” she choked out. God, there was so much blood. Angry slashes at her throat, chest and belly. Her breasts lacerated. And there was more between her thighs…

Oceane swallowed, fought the wave of nausea that clenched her belly. They had raped and cut her. “Who did this?” she demanded, rage flooding her system.

Her mother seemed to struggle to keep her eyes open, focused on Oceane briefly before rolling toward the house. “Ar…Arturo.”

The shattered remnants of Oceane’s heart plummeted into the pit of her roiling stomach. No. No, it couldn’t be.

“Where’s Arturo?” Smythe demanded in Spanish, leaning over her mother, his voice urgent. “Is he still here?”

“In…side. Run, baby,” her mother said to her weakly, her eyes sliding shut.

A deep, burning rage took over, obliterating fear, wiping out all thoughts except for one: Arutro would die for this.

Oceane was up and running toward the house before she even realized what she was doing. Smythe’s shout to stop barely registered, the need for vengeance so strong she didn’t care what happened to her.

Her gaze caught on the pistol in the fallen marshal’s outstretched hand. She bent down to scoop it up on her way past, barely breaking stride, and plunged into the back door of the house.

“Arturo!” she bellowed, weapon firmly in her grip as she burst into the kitchen.

The scent of her mother’s famous enchilada sauce hung heavy in the air, the pots and pans still simmering on the stove. It looked like a horror movie set. Blood spattered the floor, smears of it going up the walls, the cabinets. Bloody footprints led toward the back door, and away toward the living room beyond it.

Her muscles were tight as steel cables, her gaze scanning restlessly for a target. A shadow moved in the living room, just beyond the kitchen.

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