Page 101 of Vaquero
Until Meg roared like an Irish banshee, pivoted to her right, stuck her pointed elbow in Julio’s side, and let her weapon roar. “Br-r-r-r-r-r-t!” Then another deafening,“Br-r-r-r-r-r-t! Br-r-r-r-r-r-t! Br-r-r-r-r-r-t!”
Bright, deadly laser bursts flashed from the business end of her Heckler and Koch. Pivoting in a tight semi-circle, with her back to him and swearing like a sailor, she lit that dark, shadowy clearing with magnificent sprays of focused lightning. Yet not a single predator fired back. Had they all overlooked her? Had she simply caught them by surprise?
Regardless, Julio fired, covering her. Only when he turned to his left did he catch the red, white, and blue of several God-blessed, forward assaulting flags on the arms of the camouflaged warriors who’d literally dropped out of heaven. That explained why Zapata’s men weren’t shooting back. They were caught in a crossfire between her and the fast-roping USA assault team that had just—in the nick of time—joined the fight.
By then, Julio’s rifle was out of ammo. He switched to his Berettas, accurately picking off Zapata’s bastards one by one. There was no escape. Zapata’d underestimated the power of God and of the woman at Julio’s side. His men had gotten in too close, too fast. They couldn’t run from Meg or whoever those USA angels were.
In the midst of all that eardrum-shattering destruction, Julio saw Zapata’s mouth open wide, no doubt bellowing orders no one could hear. Sneering like Satan, he jerked something out of his rear pocket and tossed it into the firepit. Instant flames burst to life.
Backing against the bars of what had become a deathtrap, poor little Dominic’s mouth opened wide with an unheard, “Mum! Mum!”
Meg’s weapon ceased firing, as she ran into Hell to save her boy. “No! No, no, no!”
Instinct took over, and before that team from Heaven—or Fort Campbell, Kentucky—mistook her for an enemy combatant, Julio followed her, covering her ass, while she closed the to Zapata.
With every step she took, he watched her intently, like a snake. His upper lip twisted into a wicked sneer. One black-inked hand lifted, the dark blade in his fingers balanced between his fingertips, ready to be thrown. This man rarely fired a gun, but he was damned good with knives.
Not. Today.
The Berettas that had saved Julio’s life so many times in the past, now riddled Zapata’s short, squat body. He jerked backwards. His shoulders pitched forward and his arms flopped, when each deadly round plowed into his thick chest and gut. God, the satisfaction.
Julio’s aim was true; he didn’t miss once. Yet Zapata still breathed. The initial impact had blown him flat against his bunker. With a hard thump, he’d hit the wall. But he hadn’t dropped his blade, and Meg was now fumbling to free Dominic, shouting, “God, help me, Julio! Julio! Anyone!”
Frantically, she strained back on her heels, pulling the heavy metal cage aside and away from the fire. Flames hadn’t yet reached it enough to have heated any bars. As long as she held the cage at that angle, poor Dominic was in no danger. But the woman didn’t seem to understand that in rushing to save Dominic, she’d put herself in harm’s way.
Frightened, Dominic punctuated every grasping reach for her with, “Mum! Mum! Mum!” He’d plastered himself to the side nearest Meg. His arms were stuck between the bars, clutching at her, demanding she hold him instead of the cage.
All Meg could see was her boy. She’d lost situational awareness. Zapata could and would still kill her.
Julio put himself between the woman and child he loved and the bastard he hated. Dominic didn’t need to see what happened next. Neither did Meg.
Zapata had just sunk to his knees. But the son of a bitch’s chest was still expanding. Because of Kevlar. The bastard had come to this fight prepared.Fat lot of good, that.
Because finally, the time had come. After too many years planning for this precise moment, Julio arm straightened as he zeroed down on the psychopath from Hell.
Zapata’s ungodly black eyes glared up at Julio. Yet even wounded, with blood dripping out of his mouth, godawful hatred growled out of him.“Vejo você no inferno um dia.”
I will see you in hell, this day.
Julio shook his head, the pistol in his right hand warm and sure—like an old friend. “I think not,” he replied evenly and in the language of his chosen country. “When I die, I will go to my Father and my son.”
Sudden awareness flashed like a flame come to life deep within Domingo’s evil eyes. “Your son? He is dead?” An ugly smile lifted that sneer. “I killed your weak little bastard after all,” he purred, lifting his knife. “That is good to know. Then go,amigo.Go to hell. Join your pitiful excuse for a man-child in—”
“I am not your friend!” Julio hissed at the man he hated with every fiber of his father’s heart. “But this” —he aimed, and, with full intent and years of missing that perfect man-child, Julio put one round through Zapata’s tattooed forehead— “is for Tomas! My son!”
Then, for insurance, a quick double-tap. “And this is foryourson, Zapata. You are a fool. You lose. Everything. Now go to hell with your brother and never know peace.”
Which was not all Domingo deserved, but which was all Julio could humanly do. True justice would still come to this wicked excuse of a man, but it would come at the hand of God. Julio turned back to the woman and the child he loved. He would never confess this sin, nor seek forgiveness for it. Ending Domingo’s bloody reign was a most righteous kill. God damned well knew it.
“Julio, help me,” Meg cried.
With a quick mental snap back to reality, he rejoined the battle, which had turned into clean-up now that Zapata was dead. Quartering the scene, Julio confirmed that none of Zapata’s men’s bodies so much as twitched. And those angels who’d fast-roped from heaven? None other than Special Agent Coltrane. She and the three hefty men with her were moving from body to body, securing the scene. Applying double-taps where needed, not first-aid.
Reaching down, Julio jerked Zapata’s keys off his bloody neck and turned his attention to the tender little lamb bleating for his “Mum! Mum! Mum! Muuuuum!”
Wasn’t that just like a son? To look past his father to the mother he adored?
Meg was still working at the hatch, but her bloody fingers were too slippery. Poor thing. Sweat glistened on her grimy forehead, and the knife wound in her shoulder was bleeding through her bandage. “I can’t... Grrrr... Shit, Julio! I can’t get him out!”
