Jo Robertson - The Avenger

Santos was certain the federal prosecutors could not make their case on the RICO charges, and the grand jury was unlikely to indict Vargas. His reach extended very far indeed, but one thing he could not do with impunity was murder officers of the court. Nor could he corrupt incorruptible persons such as the two women seemed to be. Jackson Holt and Sheriff Slater also were honorables hombres. And they were stubborn as well.

Santos did not fear anyone. He had lived too long in the barrio, had fought too hard in many quarters to allow fear more than a mild consideration. No, he did not fear either Sheriff Slater or this new man, Agent Holt. But Santos was un hombre practico, one who did not go against his enemy unnecessarily. However, his boss was not a practical man. For too long now Diego Vargas had allowed his brain to be ruled by his dick.

Santos pulled the long car into the turnaround in front of the wide steps leading to the double doors of Vargas’ palatial home. He gazed thoughtfully for a moment, assessing the way to approach Diego about the matter. As he jumped out of the car and leaned forward to open the door, he spoke to the councilman.

"Senor Vargas, you pay me very well for my services."

"That is true, Santos."

"For my attorney skills."

Vargas nodded. "As well as for my… other specialties."

Vargas’ face hardened. "Say what it is you wish to say, Santos. Do not waste my time beating about the bush."

Santos cleared his throat. "The two women , they should not be bothered."

"Humph. It was not your mother they insulted."

"Now is a dangerous time for you, el jefe. There will be plenty of time later to take care of these women, to pay them for the insult to your family."

"Do you promise me this, mi amigo?"

"Su prometo." Santos placed his hand over his heart. "I promise I will deliver the women to you. When the time is right. And in such a way that their bodies will never be found."

Vargas smiled slowly. "I should like to spend some time with the pale-faced woman before you take care of the matter, eh?"

He leaned forward to lay a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder. "You have been with me a long time, Santos. You always know how to cheer me up." Vargas climbed from the cool, leather-seated interior as his houseman opened the front doors and stood waiting for him. "Much longer than anyone else." He lifted his chin toward the steps where the houseman stood patiently waiting for his employer. "And you always keep your promises."

Santos watched his boss climb the stone steps. For now he'd pacified Vargas, had held back his thirst for blood and violence, but Santos was certain Diego Vargas would quench his thirst with the innocent-looking el doctor sooner or later.

After the hassle of exchanging the rental sedan for the more versatile Blazer, Jack headed for the mountains. The problem he'd pushed out of his mind until now began to gnaw at him. His recent images of the Dead Language Killer were as elusive as smoke, and Jack felt no closer to the man now than he had four years ago. He hadn't been able to crawl inside this killer's mind as he usually did. He believed his messing with the pills and his involvement with Olivia had altered his abilities. He'd been skimping on blue tablets and increasing the reds, a dangerous combination since he'd eliminated the white pills that eased him into Recovery. Around Olivia the Phens seemed to have no effect, doubly lethal.

Seventeen years ago he'd attributed the eerie increase in strength to a natural growth spurt. That is, until the Invictus people had intervened the night of Roger's death. A few years after that he realized he'd been targeted as a potential candidate for Invictus all along. The Organization liked to track juvenile delinquents with natural physical potential along the line of Olympic athletes. Jack had come across their radar when his father went to prison and the teenage boy had starting getting in trouble with the law.

Tonight he'd felt a surge of increased sensitivity and the edginess that overcame him when his body's instinct clamored to hunt. His senses were alert, his reflexes acute. He wondered if unburdening himself to Olivia might've eased the paralysis he'd been in these last few days. He drove fast, needing to get away from her and put his mind in order, needing to go to a dark, quiet place and listen to the new sounds and urgings of his body. His job was to track a killer, and his natural powers and the small red pills to enhance them would do the job much faster than the local police could find answers.

The danger, of course, was allowing the beast to reign too effectively. If that happened, he'd cross into territory he was afraid he wouldn't be able to come back from. Wouldn't be able to traverse the distance back to his humanity, or his soul. And if he continued increasing the reds without managing the aggression, his organs would attack themselves one by one.

And he'd die.

Bill Gant leaned forward in the driver's seat of his battered Volvo to stare at Olivia's front door. He'd been here since yesterday, moving his car from time to time so he wouldn't draw attention. A tall, lean man had left her house last night. Walked out the front door at an hour too late to be innocent. Looking like he lived there, but distracted as he stepped into a black rental sedan and sped off.

The little slut hadn't wasted any time.

Obviously she was banging him. Bill clenched his fists and felt the anger boiling up. Thinking of Olivia with someone else twisted in his gut like a hot knife. Bitch! She was making a serious mistake screwing over Bill Gant. But then Olivia had always underestimated him. Looked down her pretty nose at him. They'd both been spawned by the same trashy kind of neighborhood, but she'd always thought she was better than him. With her fancy college degree, cushy job, and classy manners, she treated him like something thrown out with the trash.

He stared through the windshield at the tidy, brick house across the street. From the look of it, she also had money to burn. The inheritance from an aunt he didn't even know she had. Money that by rights should be shared with him. He removed a flask from the glove compartment, tilted the bottle and took a deep swig. The liquor relaxed him and he rested his head against the seat, closing his eyes against the anger and pain of Olivia's betrayal. He'd never let her get away with this. She was his. He'd rather see her dead than with another man.

A few minutes later he eased the car away from the curb, drove around the corner, and pulled into the empty driveway of an unlit house halfway down the street from where she lived. He killed the ignition and continued his vigilance.

The late night air in the foothills hung with the promise of an early winter. Jack camped near a fork of the Feather River and spread his bedroll on the ground, even though by the time dawn came, his toughened body would no longer feel the hard, packed dirt beneath it.

After setting up camp, he walked to the water's edge, filled his canteen, and popped four more of the red pills. On an empty stomach, they'd metabolize quickly in his system. He'd skipped dinner, but he wasn't hungry, at least not for food. He wanted to purge his body so that when he entered the killer's mind nothing would hinder the link.

He settled down beside the sleeping bag, poked at the small fire, and listened to the sounds, his hearing at maximum capacity. The scurrying of insects reached his ears along with the soft, distant tread of an animal, coyote or wolf, maybe even a mountain lion. A snake hissed a quarter of a mile away, slithering through the underbrush and rustling the foliage. Beneath the rotting logs and brush of the forest he smelled another scent, the odor of a small animal recently dead, beginning the process of decay. As the fire began to burn to embers, he stared across the narrow slice of water and made out a night owl in a tree and a worm burrowing its way into the rich dirt.