Page 9 of Vaquero
Chapter Three
A quiet, stealthy sound ahead brought Julio’s morbid musings to a full stop. He crouched low in the brush he’d been marching through. But whoever he’d heard must’ve heard him, too. He’d been loud enough. Might be Oz himself, the bastard. Instantly, the pistol in Julio’s left holster sprang to his right palm, already cocked and loaded, pointed at what could very well be one of Oz’s soldiers or, just as easily, a wild animal of the forest, maybe a leopard. There was no need to thumb the safety off. His pistols bore no such cautionary devices. That’d take too long. At moments like this, when death was close, every precious millisecond had to count.
He steadied his breathing, his sniper senses already kicked in to do what he did best. Kill, if needed. Apprehend, if not. Didn’t matter who or what was out there. They weren’t getting past him.
Until the quiet cough of what sounded like a very little girl caught his ear.
Then a more masculine, boyish, “Shhhhh, Maria. Be quiet. She said she’ll be right back.”
Children? Here? She? She who? He’d honestly thought the orphanage would’ve been closer to the village. Julio lifted his head just high enough to see past the brush between him and those kids when—
“Drop your weapon, asshole,” a scratchy but very stern, feminine voice demanded from behind him. At the same time, something that felt very much like the deadly business end of a rifle dug into the back of his skull.
Shit. He’d been caught by a woman. An American woman if his ears hadn’t lied. Not like that meant anything, but who was she and who were those kids? The orphans he’d been sent to rescue?Dulce Madre de Dios!How many were there? And where was Corporal Duncan?
Pursing his lips, Julio lifted both hands, his pistol now barrel-up. This cocky woman would have to take it if she wanted it. Let her try. “At least, tell me your name.”
“You’re American?” The disbelief in her tone was a good thing. “Who sent you? Why?”
“Answer my question and maybe I’ll answer yours,” he bargained.
The tip of her weapon dug deeper. “My kids, my rules, Bucko. Did Orlando send you? Do you work for him?” Interestingly, she’d punctuated every demand with the end of that weapon, which he now suspected was a pistol, judging by how close she’d gotten. Close enough he could smell the sweet scent of feminine sweat wafting off her. A rifle would’ve kept them farther apart. But if she hissed any harder, she’d soon be spitting nails into his skull.
Julio shook his head in pretend defeat and decided to let her think she’d won. Maybe it was the soft Southern twang to her voice or those lost children out here in the middle of nowhere that did it. He passed his pistol over his left shoulder to his captor and told her what she’d demanded.
“I’m Julio Juarez, Special Agent to Senator McQueen Sullivan, United States Senator. Texas.” Then he added, “At your service, ma’am.”
Quickly, she divested him of his piece, but damn. The woman was smart. “I know you’ve got two. I want both of them,” she ordered.
There went the pointy end of her weapon again. By the time this ordeal was over, he might have a tunnel drilled into his skull.
“Do you have to keep stabbing me with your gun?” he asked, testing her for military service.
“It’s a pistol, you idiot, not a gun,” she hissed. “You must be Air Force, or you’d know better. But I’m not telling you again. Your other damned weapon. Hand it over. Nice and easy.”
That was the first lesson most grunts learned in boot camp. Drill sergeants loved to explain how a gun was that brainless thing in their pants, while the pistol in their hands was a weapon, firearm, handgun, piece, hardware—anything but a G.U.N. And that dig at him being Air Force was spot on. Most services called Air Force members Chair Force, since they weren’t usually boots-on-the-ground like Marines, soldiers, or SEALs. Also, since they were always quartered in nicer digs, like actual hotel rooms with A/C when they traveled.
She was absolutely former military.
And enough. Julio might give up one pistol. Never two. He cocked his left elbow, and in one swift move, punched backward, aiming for her windpipe. When he connected, she gasped and stumbled away. But not before he reached over his shoulder and grabbed hold of the business end of her weapon to ensure she didn’t get a lucky shot off and into his head.
Yup. His quick fingers had latched onto an Army service pistol. Beretta M9. Semi-automatic. Nine-millimeter. One in the chamber. Just like he carried. Julio liked her instantly.
Almost made him sorry he’d elbowed her. But then the black bandana perched on her head slipped, revealing a nearly hairless scalp, and reddening waves of shock registered across her creamy complexion. Julio couldn’t have been more surprised.
Until a sweaty cannonball hit him in the back. A short, frantic cannonball with hard-hitting fists, who screamed, “Let her go!Ela é minha amiga! Seu porco vagabundo!” And a slew of other Portuguese vitriol Julio hadn’t heard since his days standing guard for his cartel boss during Rio’s Carnaval.
“Stop,” he growled, as he tried capturing the kid’s flailing fists. “I’m not hurting her. I’m here to help.”
“I kill you,porco!” the young man screamed, his face red, his hair wet with sweat, and his temper out of control. “You hurt her already! She’s crying!”
Which made Julio look over his shoulder at the woman—who wasnotcrying—but who was now pointing her pistol, and his, at him. This woman was not the boy’s mother, and she most certainly didn’t work for Oz.
At last, he snagged the kid’s wrists with one hand and held them high enough the kid had to cease kicking to avoid falling. Julio reached into his pocket with his other.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” the woman hissed, both pistols on target. “Hands where I can see them. Both of them. Now!”
Whoever she was, she had the perfect stance to take those shots, one foot positioned slightly ahead of the other and her legs spread, but not too wide. Just enough to support the kinetic energy from her weapons once, or if, she pressed those triggers.
