The Heart of a Stranger (10 page)

“Buying something for a car, I guess.” Tyler reached for the coffee the sheriff had offered him when he'd first arrived. “I'm not saying this man was Mercado. I'm just saying he looked like him.”

Yardley blew a rough breath. “Mercado's in serious trouble.”

Tyler couldn't stop the bite of cynicism lacing his words. “That's the game he plays.”

“Yes, but this time he's innocent,” Yardley admitted. “This time we read him wrong.”

Tyler glanced at Westin. The retired colonel had believed Mercado was innocent from the start. That he hadn't been responsible for smuggling arms out of Texas and into Mezcaya, the small, terrorist-ravaged country from which Tyler's wife hailed.

Well, hell, Tyler thought.

He'd assumed Mercado was guilty. But it was a known fact that Mercado danced on both sides of the law. That he'd been born into one of the fastest growing crime families in the nation. That he'd served as a Mafia underboss for years.

“Mercado was framed,” Yardley said.

“By who?”

“John Valente.”

“The new mob boss? The guy who took over after Frank Del Brio was killed?” Tyler knew Mercado had helped take Del Brio down. Of course, Tyler had been in on that mission, too. Del Brio had kidnapped Mercado's niece, the little girl who belonged to Mercado's sister, Haley, and Luke Callaghan, another former marine and Mercado's childhood friend. Mercado had appeared at the last minute, at the crucial end, right before Del Brio had been gunned down. “Mercado used to butt heads with Del Brio. They disliked each other from the start. But he never had any friction with Valente.”

“That's not necessarily true.” This came from Agent Campbell, Yardley's bride, a classy-looking redhead who boasted brains as well as beauty. She sat with her legs crossed, wearing a suit as green as her
eyes. “Valente orchestrated the smuggling ring and set Mercado up to take the fall.”

“Why?”

Yardley answered. “From what we can gather, it's personal, something Valente didn't advertise. He was jealous of Mercado.”

“Why?” Tyler asked again.

“Because Valente's mistress told him that if he didn't start treating her right, she was going to run off with Mercado.”

“Was Mercado messing with her?”

“No, not at all. He befriended her, but he was only trying to protect her. Valente used to knock her around, and Mercado was ballsy enough to confront him about it.”

“Apparently Valente decided to punish Mercado and the mistress,” Sheriff Wainwright added. “But he kept quiet, plotting and planning his revenge. He planted evidence to frame both of them for crimes they didn't commit.”

“So the mistress was implicated for running guns, too?” Tyler asked.

Yardley shook his head. “No. Valente tried to nail her on another rap. But it doesn't matter. We've already arrested Valente and some of his top men for their participation in the smuggling operation.”

“When?”

The ATF agent remained cooperative, answering all of Tyler's questions. “Just this morning, at the break of dawn. It hasn't made the papers yet.”

“What about the mistress?”

“She's safe, but Mercado's another story.”

Tyler leaned forward. “Because he's still missing?”

“Exactly. And because we're not sure if he's dead or alive.”

“Dead? Why would he be dead?”

Yardley started to respond, but he received a call, putting a temporary halt on the meeting.

Tyler sat back in his chair and waited, anxious to know more.

 

Juan completed the repairs on Cáco's utility vehicle and went to work, separating bales of hay and feeding the horses in the barn.

He stopped to rub his temples, to massage the headache forming.

Sinus pressure, he thought.

Or stress.

The kind of tension that refused to go away.

He couldn't get the man with the cold eyes off his mind.

Sharp, razor-edged brows, a slightly hawkish nose, ash-brown hair combed away from his forehead.

And those eyes.

Those washed-out blue eyes.

He fed the next horse.

How in the hell did he know what color the man's eyes were? Or how he wore his hair?

Because Juan had seen him. He'd come face-to-face with him.

But when? And where?

He rubbed his temples again. The night he'd been beaten. The night he'd fought off his attackers. The night he'd escaped…from the hit men.

Suddenly he knew who he was. His name. His history. The danger he'd brought to Lourdes and her family.

Juan ignored a row of hungry horses and tore off running, looking for Lourdes.

His boots pounded, his heart jarring with each frantic step. The wind chaffed his skin, his breath coming in strong, urgent pants.

They wouldn't kill an innocent woman, but if she accidentally got in the way. If she—

Finally he spotted her. She came out of a paddock, dusting her hands on her jeans.

“Lourdes!”

She turned, her hair whipping across her face.

“Juan?” she called back.

He told himself to stay calm, but he couldn't. His mind spun in a thousand different directions, memories sparking like fire, igniting brain cells.

What had he done? Heaven help them, what had he done?

When he reached Lourdes, when she was close enough to touch, he grabbed her hands and held them. His own were shaking, quaking with fear.

With shame.

With panic.

With the horror of his true identity.

“What's wrong? What happened?” She squeezed his fingers. “Juan. Tell me.”

He didn't know where to begin. Memories kept flooding his brain, making his eyes swim. He wanted to scream. To cry. To fall to his knees and beg God to forgive him.

“We have to go.” He started dragging her toward her truck.

“Where?”

“To the house.”

“Juan, you're scaring me.”

“They're hit men, Lourdes. Those men who were here today. They're killers.”

Her voice cracked. “You're not making any sense.”

But it did. It made horrible sense. He patted her down and found her keys. “There's a contract out on me. A mob hit.”

She looked as if she might faint. Her skin turned pale, chalky in the afternoon light.

He opened her truck and nudged her inside. “I have to call the sheriff.” He started the engine and took the wheel. “I should have gone to the police right away.”

But he hadn't. He'd avoided his identity, hid from it, convinced himself that he was an honorable man, that he'd never been a criminal.

He gunned the vehicle. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Her eyes watered. “Who are you? Damn it. Who are you?”

A bastard, he thought. The son of a bitch who'd brought hired killers to her door. “Ricky Mercado.”

“That name doesn't mean anything to me. It doesn't mean a thing!”

She was almost shouting now, rubbing her tear-filled eyes. He could see how much he'd frightened her, how he'd sent her adrenaline into a tailspin.

“It's going to be okay.” He tried to calm them both. “The sheriff will contact the FBI. And he'll send a deputy to the house.” He drew a breath, felt it burn his lungs. “We'll get through this.”

“Why is the mob after you?”

He reached their destination and slammed the truck into Park. “It's complicated.” So very complicated. “We'll talk about it after I call the sheriff.” After he was certain she and her family remained safe.

They entered the house through the back door, and
Lourdes ran in front of him. He tried to stop her, but she was frantic to find her children.

The scream she let out stilled his heart.

The twins were huddled on the kitchen floor with Amy and Cáco, a short, stocky man holding them at gunpoint.

The taller one, the man with the icy blue eyes, trained his gun on Ricky. “Stay there, Mercado. And you.” He jerked his chin at Lourdes. “On the floor with the rest of them.”

She dropped down and reached for her family, taking the twins in her arms, cradling them.

Ricky heard them whimper, just once, before Cold Eyes pulled the trigger.

And shot him.

T
he meeting resumed, with Tyler repeating his question. “Why would Mercado be dead?”

Yardley pocketed his cell phone. “Because Valente put a hit on him.”

“Dear God.” All the military missions Tyler had spent with Mercado came crashing down around his ears, all the years of brotherhood.

“We know Valente brought in freelance hit men, rather than use the mob's primary enforcers. So either Mercado is already dead or he faked his own death to escape Valente's wrath. We found blood evidence in a warehouse on the outskirts of town, and it matched Mercado's.” The ATF agent shifted in his chair as he explained further. “The way we figure it, Mercado was conducting his own investigation, searching for evidence that would clear his name. And when he got too close to the truth, Valente arranged the hit.”

Tyler cursed. He could see how disturbed Yardley was. Apparently the ATF agent felt responsible in some way. Guilty for disbelieving an innocent man.

Mercado had been pleading innocence all along, insisting he'd severed his ties with the mob.

“So if Mercado isn't dead, then he's still in danger.”

Yardley nodded. “As I said, we apprehended Valente, but that won't save Mercado. Valente refuses to admit that he put a contract out on Mercado, let alone call off the hit.”

Tyler cursed again, and Yardley seconded the motion.

“So what's the deal on this guy at the auto parts store?” he asked.

“You got me. All I know is the woman he was with seemed crazy about him.”

“I think we better question her,” the sheriff said.

“I agree.” Yardley twisted a paperclip he found on Wainwright's desk, then looked up at Tyler. “Do you think there's a chance in hell this guy could actually be Mercado?”

“I honestly don't know. But he sure had the same vibe. And from a distance, he looked just like him.”

“It's worth a shot.” Yardley got to his feet. “Who's the woman?”

Tyler rose, offering the necessary information. “Her name is Lourdes Quinterez, and she owns a paint-breeding farm outside of town. Off the old road, past the dairy.”

The sheriff reached for his hat. “Let's go.”

Tyler headed out the door with the rest of the group, wondering about Mercado.

Would they find him at Lourdes's ranch? Or was
that man an innocent bystander, someone who only resembled the former Mafia underboss?

Tyler drew a breath. By now, the real Ricky Mercado, the loyal ex-marine, the black sheep of the Fabulous Five, might already be dead.

 

“Does it hurt, Mercado?”

Ricky saw Cold Eyes staring at him.

Blood seeped through his shirt, yet the bullet had barely grazed his shoulder.

But hey, it hurt. Not desperately, but it stung.

“It's just a flesh wound,” he said it loud enough for Lourdes, Cáco, Amy and the twins to hear. They were still being held at gunpoint, still huddled on the kitchen floor. They'd screamed when he'd gotten shot, but they were quiet now, probably stunned with fear.

Ricky was being kept in the dining room, and from his vantage point, he could barely see Lourdes, just the edge of her clothes, her pant legs, the soles of her boots.

Cold Eyes sneered. “A flesh wound? No kidding? I wonder if the next one will do more damage.”

So that was it. Cold Eyes was going to torture him, pump his arms and legs full of holes, make him hurt, make him bleed before the fatal shot.

Most hit men didn't spend a lot of time with their targets. But some did.

Cold Eyes smiled. “What do you think of our insurance?”

Ricky's mouth went dry. Their insurance. Lourdes and her family.

This wasn't supposed to happen. They were breaking the rules. The mob wasn't supposed to harm in
nocent people, women and children who hadn't done a damn thing.

Ricky glanced at the shorter man. He stood like a soldier, like a trained killer, his crew cut standing at attention. One false move and he would fire at the hostages.

The people Ricky loved.

He couldn't play the hero. He couldn't attempt to overpower two armed men and not expect bullets to start flying.

He had to think of something else, another way to keep everyone alive, to free Lourdes and her family. He knew the hit men wouldn't leave witnesses. Once he was dead, the hostages wouldn't stand a chance.

“I'm getting bored,” Cold Eyes said. “Maybe I ought to shoot your other shoulder.”

“No.” Ricky shook his head. “Don't.”

The other man cocked his brows. “Are you begging for mercy now? Is that what this is?”

“No.” Ricky held his ground, using the only leverage he had left. “I'm offering you a deal.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. A deal.” Ricky refused to grip his injured shoulder, to press his hand to the wound and stem the blood flow. He wouldn't give Cold Eyes the satisfaction of seeing him acknowledge the pain. “You've already collected your money on me.” He knew the hit men had been paid in advance. He'd been with the mob long enough to know how these things worked. “And now I'm offering you the chance to make even more.”

“I've heard this song and dance before. You're not the first one who's tried it.”

Which told Ricky that Cold Eyes made a habit of
torturing his victims, of taking pleasure in hearing their pleas to try to stay alive.

“I have millions.”

“So what? We can't just walk away. Our lives wouldn't be worth a plug nickel.”

“I know that.” When a mob-hired hit man took a job, he was obligated to fill the contract. Or risk being executed himself. “But I can fake my own death, and you'll get credit for the hit. I'll change the way I look and disappear for good. No one will be the wiser. No one will know.”

It was the only way, Ricky thought. The only way to keep Lourdes and her family alive.

“What about the women and kids?” Shorty asked, insinuating himself into the conversation. “What'll stop them from spilling the beans?”

“Lourdes will do anything to keep her family safe,” Ricky said. “She'll keep quiet. All of them will. And I'll make provisions for them. I'll make sure they're taken care of.”

“So you'll pay them off, too?”

“So to speak. Yeah.” The idea made him sick, but at this point, it was all he could do to save their lives, to convince the hit men Lourdes wouldn't create a problem later.

Cold Eyes shook his head. “You're crazy, Mercado.”

“No he's not.” This came from Shorty. “He's rich as sin, and he has the capability to pull this off. His uncle was one of the most respected bosses in the business.”

“His uncle's dead.”

“He's offering us a sweet deal,” Shorty went on to say.

“It's a trick.” Cold Eyes wasn't buying. He wasn't impressed with Ricky's background, with his once-upon-a-time Mercado crime family status.

“What trick?” Shorty argued. “He either dies or disappears. Moves to some fancy-ass island somewhere. Which would you choose?”

“He's jerking us around, you idiot. The first chance he gets, he'll slit our throats.”

Shorty cursed at Cold Eyes, and a verbal war erupted between them.

The children started crying, the hit men's raging voices scaring them beyond fear-choked whimpers.

As blood soaked Ricky's sleeve, he prayed the odds were in his favor. That Cold Eyes didn't blow a gasket and shoot everyone, including Shorty—the hit man willing to accept Ricky's offer.

Willing to let them live.

 

Something was wrong. Tyler and the rest of the group knew it from the first moment they'd arrived. There had been a struggle on the front porch, an abandoned broom, a shoe, toys that had been dropped and broken, a flowerpot tipped over. A path that led to the front door, not away from it.

Someone had been dragged into the house, someone sweeping the porch. An older woman, from the orthopedic style of the shoe she'd lost in the scuffle. And children. God forbid, children.

“We've got a hostage situation,” Tyler said.

Yardley nodded, his gun already drawn.

Voices drifted from the house. Youthful cries. A masculine argument.

Colonel Westin volunteered to secure the rest of the ranch, to check the barns and outbuildings for other
activity, then return as soon as possible. Yardley and Campbell took the rear of the house, with Yardley keeping his bride close by.

The sheriff called for backup, and he and Tyler remained up front. Once everyone got a handle on the situation, on what part of the house the hostages were being held and if Mercado was with them, Tyler could make contact with his former marine buddy.

Providing he was still alive.

 

As time passed, as the clock kept ticking, Ricky searched his mind for an option. Another plan. The argument between the hit men grew louder, more volatile.

The children cried even harder.

Ricky feared someone was going to get shot. Cold Eyes still had a 9mm aimed at Ricky, but he screamed at Shorty, who yelled right back.

Shorty's gun wavered a little, but Cold Eyes hand was sure and steady, even if his voice rose and fell.

“Someone shut those brats up!” he snapped. “Or I'll do it.”

Lourdes must have reacted because the twins fell silent. After that, no sound came from the hostages.

Not a single peep.

Shorty tore into Cold Eyes with his temper. He wanted the money. He wanted Ricky's millions.

Ricky glanced toward the kitchen.

He could still see Lourdes's legs, her boots. He wanted to go to her, to hold her.

But he couldn't. He—

A flash at the corner of the dining room window caught his eye. The blinds were open, just a crack, just enough to let a small trail of light inside.

But this light was flickering. On. Off. On again.

Cold Eyes didn't notice, but the window was to his back.

Ricky watched.

Flash. Flash. Pause. A double flash.

His heart pounded wildly.

Someone from his old unit was here. The code they'd devised for private missions started up again. Ricky read the blinks of light. Murdoch. Westin. Sheriff. ATF. FBI. His heart pounded again. They were here to help. To free the hostages.

Ricky lifted his hand and tapped his forehead, giving Murdoch a sign, letting him know the code came through. He couldn't see Tyler Murdoch, but he knew the mercenary watched through the window.

The flashes started again. They had someone at every entrance, it said. Another series of lights. Tell us when, was the message this time.

When to make their move, Ricky thought.

Cold Eyes raised his voice again, telling Shorty to shut up.

Shorty told Cold Eyes to go straight to hell, then decided to send him there.

He turned his gun on his partner, leaving the hostages without an armed guard.

This was it.

Ricky gave Murdoch a sign.

Now. Now. Now.

If bullets flew, Lourdes and her family wouldn't be in the line of fire.

All hell broke loose.

Just as the unit outside made a soundless entrance, Shorty shot Cold Eyes. The man went down, but he wasn't dead.

He didn't fire back at Shorty. He aimed his semi-automatic at Ricky instead. He'd take out the man with the millions. Stop Shorty from getting his money.

Too late, Ricky thought as he lunged. No one was getting anything. He knocked the gun out of Cold Eyes's hand, and the man grabbed his foot.

Ricky hit the ground and wrestled with the enemy, who made a vicious attempt to recover his weapon.

They rolled on the hardwood floor, each battling for control. Ricky's bleeding shoulder hurt like hell, but he ignored the pain.

He caught a quick blur and realized Westin and Murdoch had nabbed Shorty. The sheriff was in the kitchen tending to the hostages.

Ricky nailed Cold Eyes with a knee to the groin. Before the ailing hit man could crouch in pain, Yardley grabbed him, securing his wrists.

It was over.

In a matter of seconds, the crisis ended.

 

Ricky refused to go to the hospital. Instead he told Murdoch to patch him up, which the other man did with little fanfare. Why make a fuss? Compared to the hole in Ricky's heart, the one in his shoulder was a scratch.

Sheriff Wainwright, his deputy and the ambulance personnel, who'd arrived just in time, were long gone.

Westin and Murdoch remained. And so did Yardley. Elise Campbell stayed, too. The female FBI agent was with Lourdes, Cáco, Amy and the kids, offering them support, helping them cope with the aftermath of a life-altering experience.

Ricky had barely seen Lourdes or her family. She
had whisked her trembling children into another room after the hit men had been hauled away.

And now Ricky was talking quietly with Westin, Murdoch and Yardley. He'd already explained his amnesia, the loss and the recovery of his memory, so they went ahead and discussed the case, filling him in.

He'd learned that Valente had been apprehended, but another key player in the smuggling operation, Xavier Gonzalez, was still at large.

“So where is the jungle rat?” Ricky asked. Gonzalez was a prominent member of El Jefe, a terrorist organization that reigned terror in Central America. The guns smuggled out of Texas had provided El Jefe with an arsenal.

“When the little worm realized we were closing in on him, he went back to Mezcaya,” Yardley said. “We can't touch him on foreign soil.”

Ricky glanced at Westin. Gonzalez had terrorized Ricky's former commander, mutilating cattle on his ranch and running his wife off the road. Westin had been responsible for killing Gonzalez's father, which sent the son on a rampage for revenge, creating fear and havoc for the woman Westin loved.

“Are you going to hunt him down, sir?” Ricky asked the ex-marine turned rancher.

Westin stood near the window, his big, bulky frame silhouetted in the waning light. “Hell, yes.”