Where There's Smoke

She pulled back the hammer of the pistol. “Don’t belittle me, Emilio. At this moment I’m capable of anything. Because of you, my baby died that morning. I’m going to kill you. Then I don’t care what your ragtag band of butchers does to me.”

“You will not pull the trigger, Mrs. Porter, because that would make you what you accuse me of being—a cold-blooded killer. You are a healer, someone sworn to extend life, not end it. You cannot kill me. It goes against everything you are.”

You smart son of a bitch, Key thought. Sánchez was grandstanding for his troops. This was the stuff legends were made of, and the little prick knew it. He was gambling that Lara would not pull the trigger, and the odds were strongly in his favor. He’d had years to study her while working at the embassy. He knew the kind of woman she was, knew of her dedication to healing. The ability to kill wasn’t within her.

“You bastard.” Tears left muddy trails in the grime on her face. The heavy pistol began to waver in her hands. “My baby’s dead because of you.”

“But you cannot kill me.”

“They put her sweet little body in a mass grave and covered it with dirt. I hate you!”

“If you hate me so badly, pull the trigger,” he taunted. “An eye for an eye. I should think that your killing me would be just retribution.”

Key refused to let Lara be made a fool. It would cost them their lives if she pulled the trigger, but he figured them for dead anyway. He decided to take out Sánchez with them.

“Call his bluff, Lara!” he shouted. “Blow him away. Aim for his smug puss.”

Her trembling had become uncontrollable. Even if she had been able to pull the trigger, her aim would have been off. Sánchez moved closer. “Stay where you are!” she yelled. “I’ll kill you.”

“Never.”

“I will!” Her voice cracked with hysteria.

“You never could.”

Confidently, Sánchez reached out and closed his hand over the gun. Lara put up token resistance, but he easily yanked it from her clutches. She covered her face with her hands and began to sob. Sánchez, smiling complacently, placed the barrel of the Magnum against the crown of her bowed head.

Key’s savage bellow was a torturous cry, the kind one would imagine coming straight from the bowels of hell.

Sánchez grinned. “Your sentiment is touching, Mr. Tackett. I’m afraid this disproportionate respect for human life, any human life, will eventually be the downfall of America. How typically, sadly American you are. You choose to save the life of your brother’s whore.”

“If you kill her, you’re history.” He spoke the warning through clenched teeth.

“You are in no position to issue threats, Mr. Tackett.”

“If I don’t get you in this lifetime, watch your back in hell.”

He struggled against the soldiers restraining him. He kicked backward and caught one in the kneecap. It crunched satisfyingly. He elbowed the other in the gut. Like his comrade, he went down. Freed, Key charged forward, but watched in impotent outrage and horror as Sánchez squeezed the trigger of the Magnum.

The empty chamber clicked.

Key skidded to a halt. Inertia propelled him off balance as his knees turned to gelatin. He pitched forward, landing hard in the dirt.

Sánchez laughed at the spectacle. “I am not a fool, Mr. Tackett. The bullets were removed when the gun was discovered in the camera bag. Your attempts to hide it were woefully amateurish.”

He tossed the revolver back into the bag, then used the pristine handkerchief once again to wipe off his hands. “I am indebted to you and Mrs. Porter for providing us with a morning of entertainment.”

“You fucking son of a bitch.” Key struggled to his feet and staggered toward Lara. No one stopped him, which in itself was an insult. He must have seemed too pathetic to pose any real threat.

Little did they know.

He had been destructively livid many times. He’d used his fists in brawls, bashing bodies and furniture. But he didn’t recall a single instance when he’d felt as though he could actually take another’s life.

Until this moment.

Given the chance, he could have literally torn Sánchez apart with his bare hands. He wanted to sink his teeth into his throat, taste his blood. It was an animalistic, primordial reaction that he would never have thought himself capable of experiencing, and it was frightening in its intensity.

“Why don’t you just kill us and get it over with?”