The aluminum alloy of the Sig P220 cooled my sweaty palms as I attached the silencer. What had I gotten myself into this time?
I rubbed the butt of the gun against my forehead and leaned up against the splintered stable door. The firearm dropped to my side as hooves stomped behind me. The smell of horse manure slammed hard and fast into my nostrils, settling in my throat.
I needed to get out of there, if not for the damn odor . . .
Shit. Something was moving outside.
I edged closer to the door and peeked through a baseball-sized hole with ragged, singed edges.
The men were tall, tan, and resembling villains from some cliché Western. They stood across the courtyard by the house. Each had a hand resting near a weapon holstered at the hip. They were waiting.
Waiting for what? Me?
They weren’t supposed to be there—not in the back. I’d spent the last two days studying aerial footage of the home, and there had only been guards at the front of the house. Why the hell were they in the back now? And why was the courtyard lit up like some Goddamn Christmas tree? I had planned to use the darkness as my cover, but now I needed a new strategy and fast.
I ignored the buzzing of the smartphone against my leg as the sound of the neighing horse gave me an idea. It probably wasn’t the best of ideas, but it would have to do. Stepping back, I sucked in a breath and swung open the door to the stable.
The horse angled its head, and a pair of black glossy orbs studied me as the beast pounded its right hoof in the dirt. I jumped out of the way just as he leaped forward and pummeled the barn door head first, busting it wide open.
“Maldición,” one of the guards cursed, reaching for his weapon.
The two guards chased after the mustang as it wheeled around the courtyard, raising its front legs up in the air as it cried.
It was now or never.
I darted through the broken door with my gun aimed at the first guard. My bullet stung him in the shoulder, and his pistol clattered to the ground. He dove away from the charging mustang as his tongue spewed forth several more curses.
The other guards’ eyes locked onto me as the sound of death whistled past my ear. The bullet careened off the statue of an angel that stood just outside the barn.
An angel? Really?
The magazine of my weapon sprang, popping forth a new round into the chamber. My finger light on the trigger, I fired off another shot as the second guard began retreating to the house.
My bullet pierced him in the hand, and an explosion of red rained as he stumbled.
My combat boots carried me fast through the rest of the large courtyard, and I barely felt the guns’ recoil as I squeezed off two more perfect shots, which struck each man once in the leg. It would have been easy to kill them, but I prefer to leave God as the judge, jury, and executioner . . . well, at least the executioner.
The people in the house must have heard the shouting of the guards, as well as the damn screams of the horse. With my back pressed to the house beside the back door, I pushed away the noise of the mustang and the groans of the injured guards.
A shuffle of steps . . . only one guard? There had to be more than one. At least two or three inside.
The rickety old door creaked open as my ears registered the familiar sound of a safety being removed.
I whipped around in front of the door and blocked the man’s gun with my forearm. My assailant’s gun clanked on the floor as I gripped his arm and twisted it behind his back. His clothes reeked of cigar smoke, the cheap kind—definitely not Cubans. They were probably new to this game.
“Where’s the girl?” I asked as another man appeared at the other end of the hall.
The man charged, and I lifted my arm and shot him in the chest.
Now that he was no longer a threat, I shoved the man before me to his knees and leaned forward, my face inches from his, my weapon pressed against his sweat-slicked temple. “Where’s Lydia?” I gritted my teeth, adding a bit of a snarl. There had to be one more man in the house, and he was probably with the