Jo Robertson - The Traitor

A Romantic Thriller

The third book in the Bigler County series, 2011

Thanks to the many women who've enriched my life and supported me on my writing journey: my daughters Shannon, Kennan, and Megan; to the extraordinary women at Romance Bandits. Thanks also to the writers who've helped me along the independent publishing trail.

And gratitude to the men in my life. They balance out my overwhelming estrogen moments: Boyd, my husband, and my sons, Lance, Robb, Tyler, and Rand.

I love hearing from my readers. After all, you're the folks I write for!

If you enjoy "The Traitor," I'd love you to leave a review at http://www.amazon.com. To express my appreciation for your support, I'd enjoy sending you a free download of any one of other of my books.

You can contact me at jorobertson44@yahoo.com.

Life-time readers, life-time learners!

Gabriel Santos was not a man to cross.

His name among the Mexicans was El Diablo and although his given name reminded José of a holy angel, the street runners had forewarned him . Indeed, the persistent rumors of the man's ferocity and the myth that he had made a pact with Satan seemed true.

Stepping from behind the industrial waste bin, Santos emerged from the shadows and caught José off guard. El Diablo's enormous bulk morphed from among the gray shades of the alley into one dark silhouette as he stood at the narrow end like a legendary titan.

José trembled like a leaf in the wind even though the drug runners had also told him to show no fear around Santos. With his long black hair tied at the neck, his lean hard form, and his dark scowl, he looked like un angel caído, a fallen angel.

But José knew the man was no angel.

"A good soldado does not keep his jefe waiting," Santos said, lips barely moving, a puppet whose strings were pulled by an unseen force. "Nor does he flinch to show his fear."

The warning was clear, and José worked to control the shaking of his body. Sí, El Diablo. And did he only imagine the smell of sulfur? He crossed himself and scurried to close the distance between them.

When Santos motioned toward the opposite side of the alley, José stationed himself at the brick corner of the building. Then he followed Santos' lead and crouched down to wait in the shadows. In this way as their target approached them, he would be flanked on both sides of the alley's narrow end.

There would be no escape.

Long minutes crawled by and the muscles of José's thighs began to cramp. He longed for a cigarette, but did not dare risk lighting one. He wondered, not for the first time, why Santos had chosen him for the job tonight.

José did not mind smacking the girls around. He was very good at controlling putas. But to take the life of a man, that was serious business.

He shifted position, dislodging minute chunks of debris under his feet. The small plink of gravel sounded like thunder to his taut nerves. Seconds later, the scratch of a match being struck preceded a tiny flare of light, and the rich, smoky odor of a cigarillo wafted across the alley.

El Diablo enjoyed smoking these so-called seven-minute cigars, unconcerned about alerting his victim with the pungent odor. The boss once claimed if he could not dispatch a target in the seven minutes it took to finish his cigarillo, he himself should face a firing squad for being such an inept assassin.

José had no doubts the man they now prepared to kill would be dead long before his nostrils detected the scent of the cigarillo.

In the brief moment of the lighted match, José glimpsed Santos' battled face, the vicious scar that carved its length from brow to chin, the thick black hair, the hollow eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered how so stone-hearted a man had won the trust of Diego Vargas.

And the greater mystery – how he had won the affection of the beautiful Magdalena Vargas. Wife of Diego, El Jefe de Jefes, the big boss. The one they called El Vaquero because he was descended from a long line of cowboys who roamed the plains of Mexico.

Ay, what a dangerous life Santos lived!

The clink of steel-toed boots striking gravel at the street end of the alley attracted José's attention. He saw Santos rise, reach for his weapon at the small of his back, and draw the silencer from his jacket pocket. Unhurriedly, he fitted silencer to gun barrel, his gloved hands steady, his damaged face impassive.

¡Un qué corizón frío! A cold-blooded man.

Preferring the deadly quiet slice of the knife, José had his long blade in hand by the time the man reached ten feet of where they lurked in the shadows.

Santos waited until the man passed between the two of them. "Hombre," he spoke, his voice a deadly whisper in the night air.

The man seemed unsurprised. Without turning, he lifted his arms out from his sides, parallel to the ground as if to show that he was unarmed. At a nod from Santos, José stepped forward, knife swinging loosely from his left hand. Carefully, he patted the man between the legs and around the chest.

"He is not armed," he said.

"Ah, amigo, mi buen amigo." Santos addressed the man's back. "How foolish of you to walk alone so late at night." The man turned around slowly to face them. "Especially in such a part of town. Es muy peligroso. Very dangerous."

"I have important information for Diego Vargas," the man said, arms still extended. "Information concerning el árabe."

José knew by the look on El Diablo's face that Santos was surprised at this news, and it was no small thing to take a man like Santos unawares.

"The Arab, el terrorista?" Santos asked.

"Sí." The man smiled, revealing yellowed and broken teeth. "Ashraf Hashemi, the agent who works for the federal government."

José knew that the man he spoke of, this Hashemi, was not really a terrorist. It was the name the Norteños had given the Arab-American DEA agent who so trailed them so doggedly.

Un dolor en al asno. A pain in the ass, Diego Vargas had claimed many times, one whose relentless pursuit of the Norteños and the location of their latest drug routes had caused his organization a great deal of trouble.

"What information?" Santos prodded.

"I have learned the name of Hashemi's informant."

"Tell me," Santos commanded, lowering his weapon, "and I will pass the information along to Diego."

The man let out a whoop of laughter. "Ah, I think not, my friend. I will take the information to El Vacquero myself. I am not so eager to die this night."

Santos smiled, but not with the black holes of his eyes. "Perhaps you will die, nonetheless."

There was a fraction of a second between the realization of the deed and the deed itself during which José knew the man about to meet his death clearly saw the foolishness of challenging one like El Diablo. He was a cold-blooded killer, but he was a practical man, which was why his next move startled José.

Santos slowly removed the silencer from his gun and placed it in the pocket of his pants. Then he lifted his jacket and stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants.