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“Fuck!” Hank said. “Gimme a minute. I gotta take a piss.” He could hear his sister giggle as he set off down the hall.Little traitor, he thought.
Brownsville, Texas
Wednesday Morning, 6:05 A.M.
Vincent pacedthe perimeter of the small basement as he spoke on the phone. “Yes, it should be done today,” he said. The person on the other end of the line must have objected to his use of the word “should,” so he quickly changed it to, “Yes, that’s what I meant to say. It will categorically be taken care of before the day is over. I apologize for my phraseology. It’s early.”
Marcella watched as he stopped pacing and stood listening to the instructions being given to him by the person on the phone. She knew it was his “Boss,” but she didn’t know who that was. She had never met the one above Señor Heston. She imagined that in order to become Señor Heston’s boss, though, one had to be a very powerful man. Vincent started to say something else, but realized that whoever was on the other end had hung up. He threw his phone against the brick wall in anger and watched as it shattered into a thousand pieces.
Then calmly, he turned to Marcella and said, “Get me another phone from above.”
Marcella got up and went to the stairs that led to the rest of the house. She hated going up there, hated the way they looked at her. She knew they would never touch her as long as Señor Heston drew breath, but she felt assaulted by their eyes as they raked them lewdly across her body.
She pushed open the door to the basement and then walked several more feet. Unlocking the three dead bolts on the steel reenforced door, she pulled it open as well and stepped out into the ultra-modern kitchen. Her eyes scanned the immaculately clean granite countertops, and she felt her blood boil in her chest. If Señor Heston’s men weren’t so inept, she could be staying up here instead of in that cold, dank basement. She wished that she could be the one in control of the trigger that would end the lives of those who had deceived him. Their very souls would burn for eternity, paying for what they had done.
None of the guards were present in the kitchen. She didn’t know who Señor Heston had called upon to arrange their security, but this gang of thugs they’d hired was not what she expected. Even in the basement where they had been staying, she could hear them driving up on their motorcycles and partying at all hours. She shuddered to think of what they’d done in the nice house they were using. She called out for the only one of them who didn’t frighten her.
“Pablo,” she summoned.
Instead of Pablo, a young man with a white T-shirt that fell to his knees and baggy pants that somehow held up despite the force of gravity came into the kitchen. He smiled at her, and when he did, the tattoos he’d gotten around his eyes the last time he’d been in prison looked like long wisps of eyeliner coming off his lids. His name was Enrique, and if anyone ever forgot it, they needed look no further than his neck. That had been his first prison tattoo, and not long after he’d gotten it, he had beaten the artist, his cellmate, to death with a hammer he’d made of scrap metal collected on the yard over a period of two years. He’d been sentenced to death for that one, and by Texas standards, should have been executed by now. As it turned out, however, one of Texas’s most brilliant young attorneys seemed to have an affinity for defending young gang bangers. She’d not only gotten the charges against him reversed on a technicality, but she’d gotten him released too. God Bless the U.S.A.
“Hola, Marcella,” Enrique said. He looked at her breasts when he talked to her instead of her eyes.
“Enrique,” she said, holding her head high and trying to speak with the authority that Señor Heston had vested her with. “Señor Heston needs a new phone.”
Enrique went over to one of the large pantries on the wall and unlocked it. Marcella almost gasped aloud when she saw that it was filled with guns, ammo, and cell phones from floor to ceiling. He took out one of about a hundred phones and then turned and held it out to her. She was hesitant to get close enough to him to take it; however, she knew that Señor Heston waited for her downstairs. She walked over to where she could just about reach it and quickly grabbed the device from his hand. As she pulled it back, Enrique let his middle finger caress her wrist and palm.
Marcella didn’t tell him that his touch made her want to vomit. She knew this band of street thugs wanted to please “The Boss,” but she was smart enough not to disregard their innate potential for violence. Instead, she issued a polite “thank you” and went back down to be with Vincent, where it was safe.
Pendale, Texas
Wednesday Morning, 6:35 A.M.
With Raven,Corbett, and Lewis by his side in the living room, Ridge waited impatiently for Hank to come back from the bathroom. He’d been in there for quite some time, and he knew Corbett was getting edgy. Corbett had a lot on his plate these days. The man wanted to turn Hank over to the U.S. Marshals as quickly as possible so that the least of his present worries was taken out of the equation.
Ridge shot Raven a look of concern. Hank had gone down the hall towards the bathroom over thirty minutes ago. She’d checked in on him a few times, mostly to make sure he hadn’t escaped through the bathroom window, but it was time they tried again. This time, Ridge went with her.
Raven knocked on the door once and asked her brother if he was okay.
“I’m fine!” he snapped at her.
They returned to the living room and sat on the couch. Displeased, Corbett tapped his fingers against the side table while Lewis folded his arms across his chest. They were not happy.
Smiling sweetly at their guests, Raven said, “He’ll be right out.”
When Hank finally emerged, he didn’t look much better than he had going in, except that he wore a pair of sweatpants over his boxer shorts. At least it was something. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the table and said, “Let’s get this over with. I need a nap.”
Corbett began by telling him, “We have reason to believe that Vincent Heston is still in Texas.”
Upon hearing this, Hank choked on his coffee. When he finished coughing, he sputtered, “Fuck! He’s going to kill me!”
“That’s what we’re here to prevent,” Lewis assured him.
Hank looked at him distrustfully. “What is it that you’re suggesting?”
“Witness Protection,” Corbett said. “Like we talked about before. The U.S. Marshals are ready. All they’re waiting for is our call.”
Hank glanced nervously at Raven. “Is that my only option?”
