Garza's wrist to the floor. He plucked up the .45 and checked the magazine. Six, plus one in the chamber. Garza's eyes lost their glaze, so Matt pointed the gun at his forehead. The wound in his side itched as his kidney knitted together.
"Onofre, I'm not trying to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Can I help you up?" He held out his left hand. Garza looked from the hand to the gun and back, then reached up. Matt pulled him up. He spun the pistol so that it faced Garza grip-first. "You need that more than I do. Don't shoot at me again."
Garza took it, then knelt by his daughter, semi-conscious and babbling in Spanish. "What happened?"
"She'll be okay. She stabbed me. Where the hell are your guards?"
Garza shook his head. "They should be here by now. Dozens of them."
No one moved on the lawn, and he heard no footsteps. "Do you have somewhere to hide?" Garza nodded to a door behind Matt.
Matt yanked it open. Wine cellar. "Get in there. Don't come out until I give the all-clear. Where's your security feed?"
Garza shook his head as he cradled his daughter in his arms. "Off-site. Helicopters will be coming."
Matt ducked into the cellar with them and pulled out his phone. He called Conor. It picked up on the third ring. Conor said nothing, so Matt kept his voice low. "Flynn. What's your status?"
A sloppy gurgle answered him, almost a voice. It sounded like Conor, but low, guttural.
"What the hell is going on?"
The line went dead. He tried Jeff. The phone rang once, and Jeff picked up. "Mexican military choppers are inbound on your position. A lot of them. What's your status?"
Matt hesitated. "I think Flynn bonked out."
"That's ridiculous. He passed his psych screen two days ago, same as the rest of you."
"Fire the goddamned shrink. And get me an evac." He hung up the phone and turned to Garza, who sat on the floor with his daughter's head in his lap, stroking her hair. "Do you have any weapons down here?"
Garza patted the pistol, on the floor next to him. "Just this."
"Keep it," Matt said. He stepped out the door and closed it behind him with as much stealth as he could manage. Crouching low, he peered through the dining room. Outside in the grass, a uniformed man lay on his back, but with his head face down. He saw no sign of the other guards he'd seen on the way in — the heat of the day obscured Matt's infra-red vision, and even with UV augmentation he couldn't see more than a few feet into the foliage.
He grabbed a pair of chef's knives from the kitchen, each one a nine-inch blade of razor-sharp steel, and crept from room to room, searching the house for any sign of Conor. Chunks of meat lay scattered across the side veranda in an ocean of steaming blood, with only a single hand to identify it as human. Or humans. He closed his eyes.
Breathing in the next room, sharp and frantic. The scent of jasmine mingled with blood and sweat and urine, and under that, aftershave. Conor always used classic Old Spice.
Matt opened his eyes. Muscles taut, he turned the corner.
Conor crouched naked over a crying woman, one hand on her shoulder, the other easing a ropy coil of intestine from her abdomen. Words Matt didn't understand crisscrossed Conor's body in a red-brown tattoo, a jumble of runes and letters — Roman, Gaelic, Cyrillic, Sanskrit, Chinese, Arabic . . . .
For the moment, the woman lived, her entrails intact. If he could stop Conor, she might survive.
"Conor," he said. "Can we talk?"
The woman continued her sharp, short breaths as Conor pulled another foot of bowel from her stomach. She would have been pretty, with chocolate skin and stunning eyes the same tan as her silk sundress. Instead she looked broken, covered in blood, face bathed in terror and pain. Her eyes rose at his voice but looked through him.
"It was an ambush," Conor said. "They were going to kill us." He didn't let go, and Matt couldn't risk violence while he still held her. His neck twitched. "Try. They were going to try."
"Fair enough.
"Onofre, I'm not trying to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Can I help you up?" He held out his left hand. Garza looked from the hand to the gun and back, then reached up. Matt pulled him up. He spun the pistol so that it faced Garza grip-first. "You need that more than I do. Don't shoot at me again."
Garza took it, then knelt by his daughter, semi-conscious and babbling in Spanish. "What happened?"
"She'll be okay. She stabbed me. Where the hell are your guards?"
Garza shook his head. "They should be here by now. Dozens of them."
No one moved on the lawn, and he heard no footsteps. "Do you have somewhere to hide?" Garza nodded to a door behind Matt.
Matt yanked it open. Wine cellar. "Get in there. Don't come out until I give the all-clear. Where's your security feed?"
Garza shook his head as he cradled his daughter in his arms. "Off-site. Helicopters will be coming."
Matt ducked into the cellar with them and pulled out his phone. He called Conor. It picked up on the third ring. Conor said nothing, so Matt kept his voice low. "Flynn. What's your status?"
A sloppy gurgle answered him, almost a voice. It sounded like Conor, but low, guttural.
"What the hell is going on?"
The line went dead. He tried Jeff. The phone rang once, and Jeff picked up. "Mexican military choppers are inbound on your position. A lot of them. What's your status?"
Matt hesitated. "I think Flynn bonked out."
"That's ridiculous. He passed his psych screen two days ago, same as the rest of you."
"Fire the goddamned shrink. And get me an evac." He hung up the phone and turned to Garza, who sat on the floor with his daughter's head in his lap, stroking her hair. "Do you have any weapons down here?"
Garza patted the pistol, on the floor next to him. "Just this."
"Keep it," Matt said. He stepped out the door and closed it behind him with as much stealth as he could manage. Crouching low, he peered through the dining room. Outside in the grass, a uniformed man lay on his back, but with his head face down. He saw no sign of the other guards he'd seen on the way in — the heat of the day obscured Matt's infra-red vision, and even with UV augmentation he couldn't see more than a few feet into the foliage.
He grabbed a pair of chef's knives from the kitchen, each one a nine-inch blade of razor-sharp steel, and crept from room to room, searching the house for any sign of Conor. Chunks of meat lay scattered across the side veranda in an ocean of steaming blood, with only a single hand to identify it as human. Or humans. He closed his eyes.
Breathing in the next room, sharp and frantic. The scent of jasmine mingled with blood and sweat and urine, and under that, aftershave. Conor always used classic Old Spice.
Matt opened his eyes. Muscles taut, he turned the corner.
Conor crouched naked over a crying woman, one hand on her shoulder, the other easing a ropy coil of intestine from her abdomen. Words Matt didn't understand crisscrossed Conor's body in a red-brown tattoo, a jumble of runes and letters — Roman, Gaelic, Cyrillic, Sanskrit, Chinese, Arabic . . . .
For the moment, the woman lived, her entrails intact. If he could stop Conor, she might survive.
"Conor," he said. "Can we talk?"
The woman continued her sharp, short breaths as Conor pulled another foot of bowel from her stomach. She would have been pretty, with chocolate skin and stunning eyes the same tan as her silk sundress. Instead she looked broken, covered in blood, face bathed in terror and pain. Her eyes rose at his voice but looked through him.
"It was an ambush," Conor said. "They were going to kill us." He didn't let go, and Matt couldn't risk violence while he still held her. His neck twitched. "Try. They were going to try."
"Fair enough.
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