Dangerous (18 page)

Tomorrow night? The clock was ticking now. Drago could see that Camille was thinking the same thing.

“We're at a dead end again,” she said, her voice strained. “Jamie or Jerry Cal-something. What are we going to do with that?”

“I don't know yet. Let's chow down and get out of here.”

“My appetite is gone.”

“But you're going to eat anyway or you won't have enough fuel to keep going.”

In the end, she alternated between eating and pushing the food around on her plate. He kept his mouth shut, since he figured nagging her to eat would only upset her further. He'd just settled the bill, and they both got up to leave when Perla swung by them on her way to delivering more food.

“Calderon,” she said. “His name was Jessie Calderon.”

“Finally, a solid lead. I'll text Jackson when we get in the car.” Camille was feeling a little more positive as they entered the alley.

It took her a moment to realize they weren't alone.

Three guys—gangb
angers from the looks of them—stood between them and the parking lot. All three wore baggy pants, armless white tees that showed off the H. L. brands on their muscular arms, a variety of tattoos on their shoulders, necks, and arms, and black baseball caps worn backward. All three were armed, though only one had drawn his weapon. From this distance, it was difficult to make out the details of their faces.

“Well, if it ain't Drago Nance and his
puta
,” said the man in the middle, who apparently was the leader.

“Huerta!” Drago spat out the name like a curse.

Obviously he knew and despised the gangbanger. His tension spread to Camille in a nanosecond. She went immediately on guard, especially when Huerta said, “Skull…Zippo,” and indicated they should move out.

The men on each side of this Huerta split off from him and came toward them. Rather, their interest was centered on Drago, who was looking from one to the other, apparently sizing up the threat they represented.

“Really?” he asked them. “You're under the delusion that you can take me?”

The short one with the bigger grin and the knife in hand said, “Two of us, one of you. You don't stand no chance,
burro
.”

“So, Skull, are you the one who wants to die tonight?”

Drago's response twisted Camille's stomach into a knot. He sounded serious, as if killing one of them was nothing more than taking out the trash. She knew he had to defend himself, but he made killing sound so easy.

The big grin faded as the gangbanger went for him, knife hand first.

Drago whirled and kicked, his foot connecting hard enough with the attacker's arm that the knife went flying off into the dark. He finished off the roundhouse with an elbow jab to the guy's throat. Skull went down to his knees, gagging and gasping for air.

Only to be immediately replaced by the other gangbanger.

Zippo had circled Drago and now came at him from behind. Adrenaline fueling her, Camille shot forward to stop him only to come up short when a meaty hand grabbed her upper arm, effectively jerking her to a halt.

“Drago, watch your back!” she shouted only to see he'd already spun around to confront the new threat.

She unsuccessfully tried to free her arm. Turning to Huerta, who was reeling her in, she froze for a second when she saw his face.

The right side was tattooed with a half dozen teardrops. His cheek was decorated with a nasty looking scar.

The one Noreen had put there with a broken beer bottle before he could kill her?

Angel?

She'd finally found him!

Rather, he'd found them to stop them.

Fury fueling her, she threw her shoulder into his body with all her might. The surprise contact loosened his grip on her arm and she tore herself free.

“Not so fast,
puta
!”

He came for her and she fought him, getting in a few punches to the head and gut that made him grunt and dance around her. But then he ignored her flailing fists and grabbed her again, this time by both arms. She tried head-butting him the way she had Buzzard in the bar. Whipping his own head out of the way, he growled at her and grabbed her by the hair. Practically tearing it from her head, he forced her onto her knees in seconds. Furious, she couldn't do anything about it for the moment. Her eyes stung with the hurt, but even so, she was more worried about Drago. He was in trouble. On his back on the ground, he had one man sitting on his chest, the other slamming his head into the pavement, as if he was trying to kill Drago.

She couldn't let him die!

Instinct made her grab onto Huerta's little finger that was tangled in her hair. Camille pulled it outward and upward until it snapped as easily as would a pencil. Huerta yelped and let go. She flew to her feet even as Drago bucked and threw one attacker from his chest over his head into the other. Both gangsters landed on the alley pavement in a tangle.

Drago's gaze locked with hers and then moved past her. His eyes went dark, the expression in them instantly dead. In one smooth motion, he jumped to his feet and rushed past her to Huerta. Recovered momentarily from the broken finger, the gang leader was ready for the hit, and with his uninjured hand threw a punch that glanced off Drago's arm.

The two men circled each other, while Skull and Zippo—both still on the ground—unt
angled themselves and got to their feet. Zippo went for his weapon.

Camille was faster, pulling out her gun and aiming with both hands. “Police! Drop the weapon or I'll shoot you where you stand!”

Ignoring the warning, the gangbanger swung his gun hand around straight at her. Without hesitating, Camille fired and hit him in the shoulder. He staggered back at the impact. Surprise pulling at his features, Zippo tried to level his weapon at her, but the gun dropped from his now useless hand. She then aimed at Skull, who was going for his knife.

“Go ahead. You pick it up and I shoot!” Camille yelled, aiming straight at him.

Instead he turned and ran, his wounded buddy scrambling to follow.

Drago was still fighting Huerta. As if tied together, they danced along the alley pavement, one or the other managing to trade a punch or kick. Drago elbowed Huerta, sending him spinning away for a moment. Then Huerta rushed Drago, decked him, and went for the gun tucked into his waistband.

Thinking she would have to shoot him, too, Camille took aim. “Don't try it, Huerta!”

But the gang leader didn't listen. No sooner did he pull the weapon free than Drago acted. Still sprawled on the ground, he hooked his foot in back of the other man's knee and jerked him over. The gun discharged, but apparently the bullet went wild. Camille couldn't figure out in what direction.

Mere seconds after Huerta hit the ground, Drago was on top of him, ripping the weapon from his hand and tossing it, then savagely pummeling the gang leader.

Relieved that she didn't have to shoot the gang leader when he was their only tie to Sandy, Camille retrieved both guns from the alley pavement and tucked them into the back of her belt. Drago hit Huerta again and again, bloodying his face, until the gang leader had little fight left in him. The man was barely half conscious. Either Drago didn't notice or he didn't care. Camille had never seen him so focused and scary. This was the part of Drago that frightened her.

The part she didn't trust.

Fearing he might kill the gang leader, she was horrified. “Drago, stop before you kill him!”

Wild-eyed and appearing possessed, Huerta's blood soaking the front of his T-shirt, he yelled back, “I'm not going to let him hurt another woman!” and punched the gang leader again.

“He won't be able to hurt another woman, because we've got him dead to rights. The justice system will take care of him. He'll be in jail for a very long time.” Frantic now, she grasped the back of his T-shirt and pulled. “Drago, stop! If he's not conscious, he can't tell us where to find Sandy!”

Breathing heavily, Drago stopped with his fist raised. He stayed poised like that for a long moment, before seeming to come back to the present from wherever his thoughts had wandered. Then he lowered his arm.

“You'll pay this time, Huerta,” he swore. “Or should I call you Angel? You're not going to get away with taking the girl or killing those women.”

Camille put pressure on his arm to make him move off the gang leader. Drago moved to the side with a grunt that sounded a lot like pain. She didn't take her eyes—or gun—off Huerta.

“Where is the girl?” she asked. And when Huerta seemed too out of it to answer, she bent over, grabbed his jaw, and jerked his head around so she could look him in the eye. He seemed to be fading in and out. “The girl!”

“What girl?”

“The one you've been using as bait to get to me. Sandy Kawecki.”

Huerta shrugged.

“Memory problem,
Angel
?” Drago moved back in threateningly but didn't touch the man.

Who muttered, “Don't know what you're talking about.”

Of course Huerta would deny it. He struggled to rise. Keeping her gun pointed at him, Camille said, “Turn over on your stomach and put your hands behind your back.” From her pocket, she pulled a plastic tie that secured his hands together nearly as efficiently as the handcuffs she normally carried. “Now stay put!”

Pulling out her cell phone, she called Jackson and told him where to come to collect the scum, suggested he call in EMTs, as well. Huerta would have to be checked over for injuries. She didn't know how badly Drago had hurt the gang leader.

It was only after she'd disconnected that she realized the blood on Drago's T-shirt wasn't from Huerta, after all. That shot hadn't gone wild.

Drago was holding his side, blood oozing through his fingers.

“Why didn't you tell me you'd been hit?” she gasped, her chest tightening as she rushed to him. She was trying not to panic. He would be all right. He had to be! “How bad?” How had he continued fighting after being shot?

“I'm still standing.”

Not without difficulty, though. A fine tremor set through him, and his legs appeared as if they would give out. About to insist he let her take a closer look at the wound, she was interrupted by the sound of sirens approaching. Thankfully, Jackson's unmarked car, two squads, and an ambulance all arrived literally within seconds of each other.

The next few minutes were chaos.

Jackson reading Huerta his rights.

One EMT checking over the gang leader, while the other got Drago into the ambulance.

Camille not taking her eyes off him, asking him for the keys to his car, all the while giving Jackson a shorthand account of what had just gone down.

Jackson sending the uniforms in search of Huerta's boys.

“I'm going to need your official statement,” Jackson told her. “I'll see you at the station.”

She nodded. “As soon as I know Drago will be all right.”

The ambulance was already headed down the street. She ran for Drago's Trans Am, then took off for the hospital. She kept taking deep breaths, telling herself that Drago would be fine. The doctors would patch him right up. But she couldn't forget the way his blood had spread over the front of his T-shirt. So much blood…and here she'd been afraid he might kill Huerta, when Huerta might have killed him.

What would she do if she lost him?

That couldn't happen. Wouldn't. He was in capable hands. The doctors would do whatever was necessary to save him.

He couldn't die.

Checking in at the ER as Detective Camille Martell, she asked to be brought to Drago but was told a doctor was already with him and that she would have to wait until the doctor decided what needed to be done.

Waiting was sheer agony. The seconds ticked by so slowly that Camille thought she might go out of her mind with the waiting. All kinds of horrible thoughts flitted through her head. What if Drago bled out? What if it was worse than she'd thought, and Huerta had hit a vital organ and Drago needed surgery? She was sick just thinking about it. She couldn't lose him, not now. Not when they'd just reconnected.

This is why she avoided relationships, out of fear of losing the people she loved.

Loved…did she?

Her cell dinged. A text from Jackson:
How soon will you be here?

She answered:
Waiting to hear from the doctor now.

Holding interview w/Huerta. Want your statement first. Hurry if you can.

I'll try my best.

You always do.

No matter that she always did her best, there was nothing she could do for the man she cared for. His welfare was in the doctor's hands. He had to be all right. He'd lost a lot of blood, but that didn't mean the shot had hit anything vital. He just had to be all right. He wasn't going to die. Not like Emily. She couldn't imagine being without him…