Part 37 (2/2)

”Aaron,” Zeke said. ”What-”

One by one, the pickups skidded to a halt, caging them all in a lattice of headlight beams.The men who jumped out of the backs of the trucks and climbed from the cabs carried a.s.sault rifles instead of pistols.

Zeke had watched his daughter die once, and he'd die himself before he would witness her murder again.

He raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Around him, others had done the same. Arturo Sanchez ejected the magazine, trying to figure out what the h.e.l.l went wrong, but it was too late. If there had been a moment when Zeke could have punished Aaron Monteforte for his betrayal, it had already pa.s.sed.

The cartel gunmen surrounded them, gun barrels taking aim, promising death.

Zeke moved himself in front of Savannah. He could feel her reedy breath against the back of his neck and prepared to die for her.

8 Don't be a hero, Zeke told himself, thinking only of Savannah. But as they were all herded together at gunpoint, their weapons torn violently from their hands, he realized that there would be no heroes that night.

The cartel gunmen stared at the resurrected dead amongst them and he caught several of the hardened killers crossing themselves and muttering quiet prayers. A few others laughed in amazement. One poked a finger through the bullet hole in Big Tim Hawkins's neck and Alma shoved him away, leading to amazed chatter among the gunmen.

”Hold up, amigo,”Aaron Monteforte said, trying to extricate himself from the other pipers, all muscle and scruff and just enough bravado to veil his terror.

Aaron held his gun with the barrel aimed at Linda Trevino, who hugged her undead son, Ben-Ben, whom Savannah had once had such a crush on-and s.h.i.+elded him with her body. Tears streamed down Linda's face, but she did not beg to be left alone. She was smart enough to know there was little chance of that at this point.

”Put it down, a.s.shole,” one of the gunmen said to Aaron, the moonlight making the jagged scar on his left cheek look like mother-of-pearl.

”Whoa,” Aaron said. ”I'm with you guys.” Zeke felt bile burning up the back of his throat and his fingers flexed, either wis.h.i.+ng for another weapon or wanting to be wrapped around Aaron Monteforte's throat, or both.

The man with the gleaming scar raised his a.s.sault rifle, braced it against his shoulder, and took aim. ”Gun on the ground, chingado. Now.”

Aaron held up his left hand and gently lowered his weapon to the dirt. ”Okay, all right. But take a breath, man. I'm with you, I said.All this s.h.i.+t wouldn't be happening if it wasn't for me.Ask Carlos-”

A cl.u.s.ter of cartel thugs scattered, parting like the Red Sea as a tall man strode amongst them.

Unlike the rest, the newcomer carried no gun, only a hunting knife sheathed at his hip. His white cotton s.h.i.+rt and brown dress pants had clearly been tailored to fit his slim, powerful physique and seemed out of place amongst the denim and leather of the others.The shoes on his feet were of a soft leather than must have cost a fortune.With his thick mane of hair slicked back, curling at the ends, and his beard trimmed to a stylish severity, he looked as if he had just walked out of a business meeting and into a nightclub. ”Ask Carlos what?” the man inquired.

Aaron exhaled. ”Carlos . . . Mr. Aguilar . . . tell 'em, please. Tell 'em I helped you.”

Aguilar nodded emphatically, spreading his arms wide as if in a spirit of generosity.

”Did he help me?” Aguilar said, turning a radiant smile on his prisoners, both living and not quite. ”Absolutely, he helped me. You should all know that. Your friend, here . . . he's been working for me for more than a year.”

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