Page 65 of Sinful
"Now," Javier says, still recording on his phone. "We talk about who killed Andrés Medina. And you tell me the truth, or I put a bullet in your father's brain and make you watch."
Everything happens too fast and too slow at the same time.
Helle's screaming—the words tearing out of her like they've been trapped inside for years.
"I killed him! I killed Andrés! Not my father—me!"
The confession pours out of her in a rush, unstoppable now that it's started.
"I tracked him down in Houston two years ago! I found him in an alley behind a bar where he thought he was safe!" Her voice is raw, shaking with rage and grief. "I shot him three times—twice in the chest, once in the head! Just like you found him!"
The room is dead silent except for her voice.
"He betrayed me! He used me! He made me fall in love with him and the whole time he was gathering intelligence to destroy my family!" Tears are streamingdown her face now, but her gun hand is steady. "He nearly got my sister killed! Nearly got my father killed! Nearly destroyed everything I love! So yes—I killed him! I'm not sorry! I'd do it again!"
She's breathing hard, weapon still raised, staring at Javier with pure defiance.
"You want justice? I'm standing right here! Let my father go and take me instead!I'mthe one you want!"
The room is frozen.
Every Los Coyotes member is staring at her—this blonde college girl who just confessed to murdering one of their prospects.
Javier studies her for a long moment.
Then he smiles.
"Brave words, little girl." He lowers his phone, pockets it. "Very brave. Your father would be proud—if he were going to live long enough to hear about this."
He raises his gun.
Points it directly at Helle's head.
"But you both die today. Him for raising a daughter who thinks she can kill Los Coyotes without consequences. You for actually doing it."
I don't think.
I can't fucking think.
Just act on instinct and muscle memory and something deeper than training.
The Glock kicks in my hand—one shot, perfectly placed.
Javier's head snaps back, a hole appearing deadcenter in his forehead. He's dead before he hits the ground.
Then all hell breaks loose.
The Los Coyotes members open fire.
I'm already moving—diving behind a couch that's more stuffing than fabric, returning fire.
My first shot takes down the guy nearest to me—two rounds center mass, he drops.
Helle's shooting too, her .380 cracking again and again.
She hits one in the throat—he goes down gurgling, drowning in his own blood. Another in the chest—he stumbles back, falls.
We're moving like we've done this together a hundred times.
