There were no roadblocks to slow them, but it was midnight by the time they found the Aveo. They backtracked the way they’d come and drove toward San Cristóbal, avoiding the city itself and heading north toward Maracaibo.
Then she had to ask. “How do you do it? How do you go into combat and then move on with your life as if nothing happened?”
He took her hand, squeezed it. “You don’t.”
* * *
Luis stared at the flames,stunned. He climbed out of his vehicle just as another explosion rocked the place, the heat so extreme he could feel it even at this distance. “What … What has happened?”
“Jefe, please get back inside.” Mono tried to herd him back into the vehicle. “This is dangerous. We don’t know what has happened or whether the men who did this are still here.”
Behind him, cameras clicked.
The reporters.
The bitch from Globovisiónstepped in front of the camera. “We’re standing near the home of Colombian businessman Sergio Ruiz, which is in flames. We can’t confirm whether Ruiz was inside at the time or whether there are fatalities—”
Luis rounded on her. “Turn it off! Turn the fucking cameras off!”
He hadn’t brought them here to broadcast his failure.
Mono walked over, ripped the mic out of her hand. “You heard Don Luis. Put your cameras away.”
Jeronimo Ruiz, Sergio’s younger cousin, who’d met them at the helipad, walked up to Luis, tears on his face. “My cousin was in that house. This must be a hit by one of the other cartels. We’ll find whoever did this and make them watch while we do the same to their families.”
Luis found the bastard’s tears repulsive. “It’s not a cartel, idiot. It’s the US commando. He did this.”
Jeronimo glared at him. “You’d better hope not. He was here because you asked for Don Sergio’s help. If he did this, then it isyourfault, Don Luis.”
“How can it be my fault?” Luis laughed. “Your cousin’s men had charge of the bastard. If he overcame them—”
Jeronimo got in his face. “There is no way one man, stripped of his gear and tied to a chair, could overcomeallof those men. Or maybe you think the little nun did this?”
Luis’ pulse skipped. The bastard was crazy. “No, of course, not.”
“The commando and nun are dead, just like my cousin.” Jeronimo backed off, wiped the tears from his face. “This is the work of those Gulf bastards.”
One of the other men ran up to Jeronimo. “The fire department and police are almost here.”
What good would that do? The hacienda was destroyed. There probably wouldn’t even be identifiable bodies. If this were the work of the Gulf Cartel, they had destroyed his proof that US special forces took the hostages. The prize he’d hoped to give his brother-in-law might be ashes.
“Mamagüevo!” Luis cursed, stomped a boot into the ground.
“Look!” someone shouted. “It’s Imelda!”
Imelda? Sergio’s cook?
She ran toward them in her white cook’s uniform, hysterical and crying. “¡Ayúdenme! ¡Ayúdenme!”Help me!
Jeronimo walked over to her, took her hand. “You’re safe, woman. Tell me what happened. This was the Gulf Cartel, wasn’t it?”
“No, señor. It was that demon, the one pretending to be a nun. She shot Don Sergio. Then she killed them all. I was so scared.”
Jeronimo laughed. “The little nun?”
“Sí. Then she went down and freedhim, the man they brought in with her. He warned me that he was going to blow up the house and told me to run.”
Luis stepped in. “Did he speak English?”