Thorn in My Side Page 6

  The front door splintered open. Faith turned toward the foyer as an entry team in full raid gear flooded into the house. And then she turned back toward the bedroom and realized the Mexican was gone.

  The patio door was open. Faith ran outside as the Mexican vaulted over the chain link fence. The S&W was in his hand. Mrs. Johnson’s grandchildren were playing in her backyard. They screamed when they saw the armed man heading toward them. He was twenty feet away. Fifteen. He raised the gun toward the girls and fired a shot over their heads. Brick siding sprayed onto the ground. They were too scared to scream anymore, to move, to save themselves. Faith stopped at the fence, lined up her Glock, and squeezed the trigger.

  The man jerked as if a string had been pulled through his chest. He stayed up for at least a full second, then his knees buckled and he fell backward onto the ground. Faith jumped over the fence and sprinted toward him. She slammed her heel into his wrist until he let go of her mother’s gun. The girls started screaming again. Mrs. Johnson came out onto the porch and scooped them up like baby ducklings. She glanced back at Faith as she shut the door. The look in her eyes was shocked, horrified. She used to chase Zeke and Faith with the garden hose when they were little. She used to feel safe here.

  Faith holstered her Glock and tucked Evelyn’s revolver into the back of her pants. She grabbed the Mexican by the shoulders.

  “Where’s my mother?” she demanded. “What did they do to her?”

  He opened his mouth, blood oozing beneath the silver caps in his teeth. He was smiling. The asshole was smiling.

  “Where is she?” Faith pressed her hand to his battered chest, feeling his broken ribs move beneath her fingers. He screamed in pain, and she pushed harder, grinding the bones together. “Where is she?”

  “Agent!” A young cop steadied himself with one hand as he jumped over the fence. He drew down on her, his gun angled toward the ground. “Back away from the prisoner.”

  Faith got closer to the Mexican. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me where she is.”

  His throat worked. He wasn’t feeling the pain anymore. His pupils were the size of dimes. His eyelids fluttered. The corner of his lip twitched.

  “Tell me where she is.” Her voice got more desperate with each word. “Oh, God, just—please—tell me where she is!”

  His breath had a sticky sound, as if his lungs were taped together. His lips moved. He whispered something she couldn’t make out.

  “What?” Faith put her ear so close to his lips that she could feel spit coming out of his mouth. “Tell me,” she whispered. “Please tell me.”

  “Almeja.”

  “What?” Faith repeated. “What did you say?” His mouth opened. Instead of words, blood pooled out. “What did you say?” she screamed. “Tell me what you said!”

  “Agent!” the cop yelled again.

  “No!” She pressed her palms into the Mexican’s chest, trying to force his heart to pump again. Faith made a fist and slammed it down as hard as she could, beating the man, willing him to come back to life. “Tell me!” she yelled. “Just tell me!”

  “Agent!” She felt hands around her waist. The cop practically lifted her into the air.

  “Let me go!” Faith jammed her elbow back so hard that he dropped her like a stone. She scrambled across the grass, crawling to the witness. The hostage. The murderer. The only person left who could tell her what the hell had happened to her mother.

  She put her hands to the Mexican’s face, stared into his lifeless eyes. “Please tell me,” she pleaded, even though she knew it was too late. “Please.”

  “Faith?” Detective Leo Donnelly, her old partner on the Atlanta force, stood on the other side of the fence. He was out of breath. His hands gripped the top of the chain link. The wind whipped open the jacket of his cheap brown suit. “Emma’s fine. We got a locksmith on the way.” His words came thick and slow, like molasses poured through a sieve. “Come on, kid. Emma needs her mom.”

  Faith looked behind him. Cops were everywhere. Dark blue uniforms blurred as they swept the house, checked the yard. Through the windows, she followed Tactical’s progress from room to room, guns raised, voices calling “Clear” as they found nothing. Competing sirens filled the air. Police cruisers. Ambulances. A fire truck.

  The call had gone out. Code 30. Officer needs emergency assistance.

  Three men shot to death. Her baby locked in a shed. Her mother missing.

  Faith sat back on her heels. She put her head in her shaking hands and willed herself not to cry.

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