Page 1 of Vaquero
Prologue
Julio Juarez currently attached to an elite, former military group of covert presidential watchdogs, watched and waited in the trees. He wouldn’t move until Pagan Sinclair lifted the woman he loved, Julio’s sister, into his arms and carried her into her poor excuse of a house. It had taken Pagan nearly two years to track his woman down. They had a lot of catching up to do.
The hut Paloma called home was insufficient by United States standards, but she was happy here. She’d made a life for herself in this humble Mexican village. Better yet, the people had accepted her. Julio had checked. Everyone thought highly of her. They might not be rich or famous, but it was obvious they considered her part of theirfamilia.That was all Julio wanted for his baby sister, that she finally had what she’d been searching for.
Whether Pagan actually stayed in this part of Mexico for long remained to be seen. Julio suspected not. The Sinclairs all had bigger-than-life, winner-takes-all personas. He and his brothers, Chance and Kruze were meant for better things than the simple, unobtrusive, backward ways of village life. Pagan was one of those Chris Kyle types, a former Navy SEAL still out to save the world. He’d been born for more than happily-ever-after in a wooden hut. That’d never be enough for him.
But the Sin Boys were not Julio’s problem, and he’d interfered in his sister’s life enough. “What do you say,amigo?” he asked the sniper fidgeting at his side. “Have you seen enough? Are we done here?”
“Yeah. He’s got what he’s always wanted. Let’s move.” Kruze grunted as his fingertips toyed with the cigarette he had yet to light. Whether they realized it or not, snipers who smoked had a death wish. If tobacco didn’t kill them, their target would once he or she caught a whiff off that cancer stick. Kruze was in desperate need of a nicotine fix. It was time to move before Pagan realized he’d been followed.
Julio faced west. The Pacific lay beyond the sandy, grass-covered berm, so close he could smell the salt in the water and the seaweed on shore.
Paloma had chosen her hideaway well. Southeast of the Baja Peninsula and north of Guadalajara, she could’ve lived out the rest of her days here if she wanted. Maybe she would, but Julio doubted that also.
Now that Pagan had come for her, it was easier to leave. Julio had a date with the ocean. One he couldn’t break. That was where he was headed. To the Pacific and his dead wife, Bianca.
“Where to?” he asked hiscompadre.
Kruze hooked a thumb over one shoulder. “Back to Sonora.” Which meant he’d soon cross the border from Sonora into Tucson, where he’d catch a ride home to Montana.
Julio had never understood this recalcitrant Sinclair brother. Of the three, Kruze was the tight-lipped one, caught forever between Chance, his domineering older brother, and Pagan, the razor-sharp baby of the three. Surrounded by a good strong family, Kruze still didn’t seem to appreciate the richness of having two brothers who loved him the way Chance and Pagan did. If anything, Julio got the impression Kruze avoided his brothers, which was just plain sad.Familiameant everything to Julio. He’d give his soul to have his back.
But that day was gone. During the past two years, Julio had lost everything. With a sigh, he offered his hand. “Then this is adios,amigo.”
Kruze squeezed harder than Julio expected. But no problem. Everything with Kruze seemed to be a contest of wills or strengths. As if he needed to prove he was tougher, he stared Julio down and held on for a fraction of a second too long.
Wincing, Julio let his friend think he’d won. What did it matter? In the end, they were all losers.
“I’ll see you around, won’t I?” Kruze asked, suddenly more perceptive than Julio had given him credit for.
Playing along, he lifted his shoulders. “Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Kruze muttered, as he let go and ran his fingers over his head. “Just thought maybe you were tired or something. Maybe sick and tired. Like me.”
“We are all sick and tired, my friend.” Wasn’t that the truth? “But there’s someone else I need to visit before I leave. Be at peace, brother.” Then he lied and said, “If you need me, call. I will always come.”
Kruze’s head nod said he believed his friend. “Later then,” he said, as he faded into the fronds and tall grasses that grew along this stretch of the beach.
Breathing a sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Julio set a steady pace away from Paloma and toward the pounding surf. This stretch of the Pacific wasn’t the exact location he’d planned on, but it was the same ocean Bianca had once sought out, and that was good enough.
He ran his palms over the tips of thigh-high grasses that clung to the sandy shoreline, letting them tickle what was left of the shredded husband and father in him. Which wasn’t much. But Bianca would’ve loved this beach and this view. So would Tomas. Which was why Julio was here.
The tide was in. The tremendously huge rollers pounded the surf, demanding to be heard perhaps even miles away. Anyone might slip and fall to their death. It was possible, especially if they were foolish enough to be caught on those massive rock fingers that broke through the sand and reached for the ocean. That took the beating the surf dished out. That waited for him.
Gulls hovered overhead, caught in the brisk breeze like living kites. They squawked. Their silvery gray wings flapped. They screeched and they called. And once again, Julio heard Bianca’s sweet siren call in the wind.
‘Come with me,’she begged again. Just like she’d begged that last day.
Yes. This stretch of the Pacific would work just fine. He would leave the earth here. He could float away and finally be done with the lies all survivors told their well-meaning friends and neighbors. Because, no. He was not okay, and he would never be okay again. The pain had to stop. This was the only way.
The greatest regret Julio carried was that he hadn’t gone with Bianca that day eighteen months ago. Her depression had grown more stifling over the three months since she’d been found. But sweet battered Tomas had cried non-stop the night before. It wasn’t until early morning that he’d finally fallen asleep from exhaustion. Their son hadn’t been right since Julio rescued them from Domingo Zapata’s hellish, Brazilian home. But worse, Julio hadn’t understood how Bianca could want to run away to the beach when her only child needed her so desperately.
So he’d held Tomas, while Bianca left the two of them behind. She’d always told him that sitting near the ocean gave her hope. Like a fool, he’d believed her. But hope was not what she’d gone to find that day. Only relief from the demons Zapata’s cruelty had embedded deep in her soul. Only the final peace of never having to wake again.
Ironically, a SEAL had pulled her lifeless body out of the ocean just off Coronado that morning. A SEAL like Julio could’ve been, had Zapata not broken his life and ripped his family away. This guy had simply been swimming with his girlfriend when he’d spotted Bianca. But he’d never resuscitated her. Hadn’t even tried. There was no need. No reason. You can’t bring a woman who’d slashed her forearms from wrists to elbows back to life.
Bianca finally had what she’d wanted. A way out.
