Acne Man bent down, got in his face, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Are you from the US, a gringo? Answer me!”
But Dylan must have been hallucinating, because in that instant the door opened, and Gabriela stepped into the room like something out of a video game fantasy, carrying an Israeli IWI Tavor. She opened fire.
Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!
The noise was deafening.
Fuck!
Was thisreal?
As quickly as it began, it was over, blood running across the floor and trickling down the drain.
Then she was there, cutting the ropes that bound him. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. I got here as fast as I could. Hey, Dylan, are you with me?”
“Yeah.” He tried to pull himself together.
“Are you going to be able to walk?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” He stood—and sagged against her. “Give me a minute.”
“We need to get out of here—now. The men who left to get Sánchez will be back at any minute. We should find your backpack, too. It’s in Ruiz’s office.”
Dylan’s brain must have been fried because he couldn’t seem to grasp what she was telling him. “My shirt. My boots. I’m going to need them.”
She gathered them and grabbed a rifle off one of the men she’d just killed for him. “Here—and hurry! Ten of Ruiz’s men went to pick up Sánchez. If they get back before we’re gone, this night is going to get a lot bloodier.”
Dylan sat in one of the other chairs, put on his boots, T-shirt, and ACU shirt, the pieces beginning to come together. “You said ten of his men went to get Sánchez. What about the others?”
“They’re dead. I shot them.” She glanced around. “What kind of hellhole is this?”
“You shot themall?” He stared at her.
Seriously, his brain had to be completely fucking fried.
“They were torturing you, Dylan. They were going to kill you. What else could I do?” She held the Tavor at the ready, looked up the stairs.
“Yeah. Right.” Then he saw. “You’re bleeding.”
Blood soaked the side of her T-shirt.
“Just a graze. We can deal with it later. We need to go.”
Dylan checked his rifle and followed Gabriela up the stairs, training kicking in, clearing his mind. The house was dead silent. When they reached the top of the stairs, he saw she wasn’t kidding. Deadsicarioslay on top of each other in the foyer, blood everywhere, the wall pocked with bullet holes.
¡Ay, virgen santa! Oh, Holy Virgin!
“Your backpack is in there.”
He followed her into what must have been Ruiz’s office to see Ruiz himself dead where he sat, brains blown out. “¡Coño! You killed the head of the Andes Cartel.”
“I had no choice.”
“No, you didn’t.” Dylan grabbed his backpack, checked it, found his phone and the first aid kit inside. He handed the first aid kit to her. “You’ll need this. Hang onto it. What’s the plan?”
“I don’t have one. I’ve been making this up. I say we steal a vehicle and get out of here now. I took these keys off Ruiz’s desk. Or maybe you think we should try to steal the helicopter?”
“I sure as hell don’t know how to fly a chopper. Do you?”