When Antonio and Tomas heard the first shotgun blast, they were in the basement on the opposite side of the house. They’d been clearing the first of two guest bedrooms connected to a gigantic common area that served as an entertainment area and fitness center.
When the shotgun blast reverberated through the walls and floors, the men exchanged a wary glance. Both immediately knew something unplanned had just occurred: neither Cesar nor Angel carried a shotgun.
Antonio thought he heard a voice shouting upstairs, but it was extremely faint. The floors and insulation separating them dampened the speech to an almost inaudible level. “Let’s go,” Antonio said.
The two men exited the bedroom and moved through the common area with a single purpose. Once up the basement stairs, they’d entered the hallway outside the kitchen.
A second shotgun blast startled them once more. Both men froze. Neither spoke. They were too well trained to reveal their position.
Antonio whispered, “Give it a minute. We wait here until we hear something else.” The men positioned themselves on either side of the hallway entrance to the kitchen, waiting for any sign of movement.
Antonio stared at the dead dog on the floor. He was a mercenary and paid handsomely for his services. As a result, he compartmentalized his personal feelings on a job like this one. He wasn’t supposed to know the details of their mission, but he’d overheard Juan and Roberto talking.
He knew what they were doing would change the political balance in the Middle East. He didn’t care. The money trumped everything—politics, ideals. None of it mattered to him. So it was ironic that he felt a twinge of remorse at the sight.
Antonio had owned a yellow Labrador as a boy. It had been his closest friend until he was twelve years old, when the dog had somehow escaped the confines of his family’s fenced-in backyard. The dog never returned.
He’d desperately wanted to believe the dog had been picked up by another family, free to live out its existence. Unfortunately, Antonio knew the world was a different place. Things like that didn’t happen in Mexico. There were no fairy-tale endings. More than likely, the dog had been killed by a vehicle, or worse.
Quick footsteps from the front staircase shifted Antonio’s attention from his troubled memories to the present.
Neither man moved, their dark eyes fixed on the kitchen entryway. Wait for her . . . a few more seconds.
Antonio heard soft shoes strike the hardwood floor of the foyer. There was a squeak as the West woman turned sharply and moved toward the kitchen. And then for some reason, she suddenly stopped in the hallway.
Antonio wondered what had happened. Did she hear us? Then he realized why she’d stopped, and he felt a moment of sympathy for this woman he didn’t know. She’d seen her lifeless dog lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, and the sight had stopped her cold in her tracks.
He heard a stifled sob of grief, but then she regained her composure. Oblivious of the two men, she walked into the kitchen toward her fallen companion.
Antonio waited for her to reach him before he acted. As soon as she entered the kitchen in front of him, shotgun held in front of her in both arms, Antonio lashed out and covered the distance between them in one stride.
She’d heard the rustle of his clothes, but it was too late to react.
Antonio snaked his right arm around her throat and locked his right hand into the inside of his left elbow. He placed his left hand on the back of her head and squeezed.
The suddenness of the attack forced her to drop the shotgun, which fell loudly to the hardwood floor. Unlike them, she was not a trained soldier.
As Antonio secured his grip behind her head, he heard a clatter as something else hit the kitchen floor. He looked down and saw that she’d dropped her cell phone. It was in the process of making a call.
“Turn that off, Tomas,” he hissed to his partner as he applied more leverage to the back of her head. “She’s trying to call someone.”
Tomas quickly bent down and picked up the phone. He saw a small picture of her husband, Logan West, smiling back up at him. Even on a small screen, this was a fearsome-looking man. It was in his eyes. Before Logan could answer, Tomas pressed the “end” button and disconnected the call.
“It didn’t go through. I think we’re okay.”
Antonio grunted acknowledgment and squeezed harder. She never had a chance. A gasp escaped her throat. Before she could scream, Antonio’s iron forearms and biceps cut off the circulation of blood to her head. Even with no oxygen, she continued to fight, surprising him. She’s stronger than I thought.
Instead of underestimating her, which had obviously been fatal for the other team, Antonio applied more pressure. He was as calculating with his use of force as a doctor prescribing an especially dangerous medication. Just a little more . . . and after an additional ten seconds of struggling, the West woman finally went limp in his arms.