LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

had started as rebellion as a teenager had turned into something much different. She’d hung with Joaquin, an idealistic, young wannabe revolutionary in the slums of Mexico City, and her youthful aimlessness had evolved into a crusade for justice. Joaquin Castillo had turned from Marxist idealist into someone who saw the truths of corruption, both right-and left-wing. Amanda Moran conveyed her good looks and connections into a place where she could strip bare the hypocrisy and corruption in an anchor’s chair.

      They’d married, but Amanda Moran Castillo was part of a one-two punch. Joaquin dug deep into the secrets behind the camera and Amanda laid them raw and unfiltered on nationwide TV. It was dangerous, risky, and Amanda was reminded of that every day when she looked in the mirror at the scars on her hips and stomach. The end of her two-piece-bikini days was a small price to pay, however, for the cause of truth and justice.

      Now, however, as she watched a US Marshal apply emergency first aid to Joaquin, she realized that some prices were just too high to pay.

      “¡Mi corazon!” she breathed as Marshal Burnett put his arm across her chest, holding her back from the scene.

      Amanda wanted to tear loose from the old lawman with his Southern drawl, but she became all too aware of the need for his restraint. The wooden floor between her and her wounded husband was shredded, splinters and sawdust erupting as a wave of heavy automatic fire rained down.

      “Gettin’ yourself killed ain’t gonna help your man!” Burnett growled. He tugged her farther back from the damaged wall, keeping himself and his big silver handgun between Amanda and any incoming harm. Burnett, no stranger to Southern law enforcement given his twang, walked the line with a big old 10 mm STI Executive.

      Amanda, who’d spent enough time around firearms thanks to her rich family, was impressed at the beast of a gun. Everything from its gleaming, mirror-polished slide and black polymer frame screamed “fear me.” The Executive was essentially what happened when a Texan decided that the Colt 45 just didn’t have enough punch or enough rounds in the magazine. The basic design of the 1911 had been preserved, but the polymer frame had a hole in the grip to handle a double-stack magazine. Burnett said he had twenty rounds in each of the fat magazines on his belt. The 10 mm round carried as much punch at 100 yards as the .45 ACP had at the muzzle, and Burnett wasn’t using the down-loaded FBI rounds that had eventually given birth to the .40 Short and Weak, as he called it.

      The house had gone from silent to a maelstrom of thunder and disintegrating objects in the space of heartbeats. With Joaquin down, but seemingly miles away on the other side of a deadly firefight, Amanda’s thoughts quickly turned toward her children. They were out of the house...

      Out in the open!

      Burnett kept her still, edging them farther along the interior of the house, avoiding clear fields of view from the windows.

      “The kids!” Amanda shouted.

      “Out on the edge of the estate,” Burnett growled. There was a motion caught out of the corner of Amanda’s eye, and Burnett reacted, firing that big silver gun through the naked windowpane. The Executive roared loudly enough to make the crackle of gunfire outside disappear for a moment. Apparently, Burnett’s first shot didn’t have an effect. He shifted his aim and fired through the wall. Massive chunks blew out and in less than a moment the figure of a toppling man appeared for a brief instant in the window.

      “We have ground attackers! Side three!” Burnett shouted over his hands-free mike. Whether any of the other lawmen around the compound could hear a thing was highly in doubt. But even as Burnett barked his observation, bigger guns cut loose from inside, blasting more chunks through walls, tearing into those laying siege to the house.

      Amanda knew that, unfortunately, that vulgar display of firepower made them targets. Something turned the ceiling of the house to shredded remnants of terra cotta, tar paper and ceiling struts raining down in the wake of a blaze of automatic gunfire. The silhouettes of gunmen disappeared in the rain of burning lead.

      The next thing she knew, her voice was raw from screaming over the loss of two of her defenders. Hell clattered all around her and Burnett forcibly pushed and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, but Burnett’s hand never allowed her to trip. He was a steady guide, a protector.

      Amanda glanced back and the room where she’d left Joaquin was obscured by collapsed ceiling and walls. Her stomach twisted. Joaquin’s injuries already horrific, he was now either buried in rubble or chewed to ribbons by the torrent of fire and death hurled by their assailants.

      If death hadn’t already claimed her husband from his gunshot wounds, it was closing its grasp on his life tighter and tighter.

      Her eyes stung, throat constricted.

      “Make sure that Perez got away with the kids,” Amanda shouted over the din.

      “He had his orders,” Burnett growled. “He’ll get them as far away as possible. Or die trying.”

      Amanda’s eyes widened with horror at that thought.

      “They’re hammering this house from all sides. I doubt they brought enough aircraft to do that and chase down Perez in his truck,” Burnett emphasized. “But those kids need their mother. That means we keep on the move!”

      Thunder and lightning seemed to blast Amanda’s world to splinters, her vision and hearing fading out. She could feel the dull thud of the floor against her cheek and shoulder, and even through the wail of ringing in her ears, Burnett’s big bad gun cracked through the mayhem of her sensory deprivation.

      Rough hands suddenly yanked her to her feet, pushed her along. This time her feet snarled against each other, her knees cracking against clutter. These were the hands of a thug hauling her around like a piece of meat, not the hands of a protector.

      Time had little meaning, but she felt her feet bash and stumble against each other what felt like a thousand times. Just when she was tired of tripping on her own feet, her vision cleared enough to see that she was outside in the Arizona sun.

      She only caught a brief glimpse of the blue sky before she toppled face-first into the dry grass of the yard. Spitting and coughing blades from between her lips, she heard the grumbles of two men talking. Explosions and gunfire left her ears too muddled to make out their conversation, but when one bound her wrists behind her back, it didn’t leave much doubt.

      From witness in federal protection to widow and prisoner.

      With the aircraft and sheer firepower on hand, Amanda quickly put together that this was one of the many enemies she had made. Undoubtedly this was a cartel, since few others could afford helicopter gunships and trained troops, and only the most insane of Mexican government agencies would dream of murdering US Marshals on American soil.

      Then again, Accion Obrar was a branch of the federales known for its gleeful willingness to break the rules. Harold Brognola of the US Justice Department had brought the Castillos to Arizona to protect them from AO, and if these men were cartel, they were only once removed from the paramilitary, unsanctioned vigilante force that she and Joaquin had gathered so much dirt on.

      And now they owned her. The nylon cable ties bit her wrists cruelly, and her shoulders burned in protest as a captor hauled her to her feet.

      “On the chopper, puta” came the order. Amanda struggled to stay upright despite the force of the thug’s shove, and she did enter the helicopter, but only after banging her knees and thighs against the bottom of the opened side door. The bare metal flooring chilled her cheek, and more hands snagged her ankles and lower legs, levering her up and into the cabin. She wanted to turn over, but a forest of combat boots surrounded her. They penned her in; she couldn’t move. She wanted to spit and curse them all, but more than one of them planted a sole on her back. The weight of their feet immobilized her, informed her that she was only meat for them; a trophy deer brought back from a successful hunt.

      She only lived at their whim. One mistake and they crushed her underfoot, without qualm, without mercy.

      Though, if their intent was to keep her,

Скачать книгу