Jill Sorenson: Tempted by His Target

She slowed her bike to a stop in a quiet area near The Pelican, taking cover behind a block wall. The spot wasn’t comfortable, but it offered a decent vantage point. She could see the courtyard and the carport.

An hour later, two men in a rental car parked on the opposite side of the street. They headed to the carport first, pausing by Brandon’s SUV. It was dark, so Isabel wasn’t sure what they were doing. Searching his vehicle, perhaps. After a few moments, they moved on, settling down in a pair of lawn chairs in the dimly lit courtyard.

Isabel stayed hidden, her pulse racing. These were Carranza’s men, without a doubt. She assumed the Mexican police would deliver Brandon to them. How could she alert him to their presence?

“Damn,” she whispered, crouching lower. The longer she lingered here, the higher her chances of getting caught became. Her mind raced with options, all unpleasant. She could flee the scene or hang back and watch it unfold.

This wasn’t going to be pretty.

Brandon’s handcuffs were removed, along with his personal effects. Sans wallet and cell phone, he was tossed into a holding area.

He couldn’t imagine a more unappealing place. It was constructed of metal and concrete. No lights or windows, no bench to sit on. A drain in the corner was the single amenity. It smelled like puke and urine.

There were two other men with him, one white, one Mexican. Both drunk.

He leaned against the wall, ignoring his cell mates. He’d never been on this side of the bars before. It was distinctly unpleasant.

After what seemed like hours, the two officers who’d collared him came back. Although he wasn’t looking forward to a long interrogation, he was happy to leave the stinking confines of the jail cell.

He was led to a restroom, where he scrubbed his hands, cringing at the blood under his fingernails. They continued on to an interrogation area in the back of the building that consisted of three chairs and a scarred wooden table.

Brandon took a seat, stretching out his long legs. “Am I under arrest?”

The English-speaking cop sat across from him. “Not yet.”

“How’s the guy who got stabbed?”

“I can’t say.”

He shifted in his chair, uneasy. If the man was dead, Brandon could be looking at a murder charge. That would be a major roadblock.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” the cop said.

Nodding, Brandon raked a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to say too much, but it was always best to stick close to the truth. Someone might have seen Isabel fleeing the scene. “I was having a beer at Señor Frog’s. On my way back to the hotel, I took a wrong turn and ended up in the alley. I saw a man and a woman, struggling. I thought he was attacking her. When he pulled a gun, I rushed him.”

The cop frowned at the term. “Rushed?”

“I ran at him,” Brandon explained. “I grabbed his arm and the bullet went flying. We fell to the ground. He dropped the gun. The girl ran away.”

“Where did she go?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did you stab him?”

“No,” Brandon said. “I assume she did. She had the knife.”

“Describe her.”

Brandon hesitated, although he remembered every exquisite detail. Honeyed skin, almost-black hair, whiskey-brown eyes. He could have described the dip of her belly button and the shape of her breasts. “Small,” he said, moistening his lips.

“Short?”

“No … slim. Dark hair.”

“Is that it?”

Brandon pretended to think for another minute. “She was wearing a hat.”

To his surprise, the officer didn’t ask him any more questions. “Okay, Mr. North. That’s all we need.”

Relief washed over him. “I can leave?”

“Yes. We’ll take you to your hotel. The Pelican, right?”

“Right.” They’d asked where he was staying earlier. “Thank you.” He couldn’t believe they were letting him go after such a brief interview, but he wasn’t going to ask for a longer visit. After his belongings were returned, the officers dropped him off at his hotel, wishing him a pleasant vacation.

Brandon thanked them again and got out of the squad car. As he approached the courtyard entrance, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with awareness. Something wasn’t right. They’d wasted his time, and then rushed him along, for a reason. What were the odds that the cops had communicated with Carranza?

He paused, weighing his options. There was no view of the courtyard or his hotel room door from this side of the street. He could circle around, through the carport, or back away and get the hell out of here.

Leaving on foot would look suspicious, and he didn’t want to be without his vehicle—or the gun he’d stashed in it. Instead of playing it safe, he switched directions, heading toward the covered carport. Although it was dark inside, he could tell he was alone. He unlocked the SUV and slid into the driver’s seat, putting the key in the ignition.

The engine wouldn’t turn over.

Brandon tried again, frowning. It was dead.

He caught a flash of motion in the carport and realized he should have taken off running. Before he could reach for his weapon, a dark figure appeared at the driver’s side, tapping on the window with the barrel of a 9mm.

Damn, damn, damn .

He held his hands up where the man could see them, his heart in his throat.

“Get out,” the thug said, gesturing with his gun. He was tall, with rounded shoulders and a thick neck. Brandon recognized him as Gaucho Rodriguez, an enforcer for the La Familia drug cartel.

Brandon exited the vehicle, playing along. “It’s all yours, bro! Take it.”

Gaucho had a partner. A smaller man stood at the rear of the vehicle, studying Brandon with narrowed eyes. This was Ernestino Garcia, more commonly known as Pelón, for his balding head. Both Pelón and Gaucho were top-level members and convicted felons; they weren’t here to mess around.

“We need to speak with you in your hotel room,” Pelón said.

Brandon gaped at him stupidly, buying time. There was no way he’d allow this pair of miscreants to take him to a more private location. So they could tie him up and torture him for information? No, thank you.

Then again, the gun pressed to his ribs was a powerful motivator.

“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. “Whatever you say. I have the key around here somewhere …”

Pelón gestured to Gaucho, who shoved Brandon against the hood of the SUV and started patting him down. So far, so good. Before Gaucho emptied his pockets, Brandon said, “I think it’s on the passenger seat.”

As Pelón walked around the side of the vehicle to check, Brandon noticed a shadowy form at the edge of the carport.

Isabel.

Her presence complicated matters, but he couldn’t squander this opportunity. The instant Pelón’s attention was diverted, Brandon flew into motion, jamming his elbow into Gaucho’s nose. It connected with a sickening crunch.

Gaucho howled in pain and stumbled back a step. Whirling to face him, Brandon kicked the weapon from his hand. It went clattering across the concrete slab, coming to rest underneath the adjacent car. Before Brandon could follow up with another punch, Gaucho charged, slamming his meaty shoulder into Brandon’s midsection. Brandon landed on his back, the oxygen rushing from his lungs.

Jesus Christ. The guy weighed a ton.

He also had fists like hams. Gripping the front of Brandon’s shirt, Gaucho pummeled his face, splitting his eyebrow, busting his lip. His head rocked back against the concrete with every impact. Stars exploded behind his eyes and pain blossomed in his skull, creating a brutal symphony of sound and light.

Brandon managed to bring his fist up, striking a hard blow to his opponent’s ear. Stunned, and probably a little winded, Gaucho lost focus. Brandon kept swinging, connecting with his target twice more in rapid succession. Realizing he was in trouble, Gaucho slumped to the side, reaching underneath the car for his gun. Before he could close his fingers around it, Brandon scrambled upright, jumping on his back. He wrapped his arm around Gaucho’s thick neck and employed a classic choke hold.