Crossing The Line. Kierney Scott
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу Crossing The Line - Kierney Scott страница 9
![Crossing The Line - Kierney Scott Crossing The Line - Kierney Scott](/cover_pre826422.jpg)
She was asleep but he didn’t move. She wasn’t dealing with her sister’s death. Nobody dealt well with death, but they dealt with it. They cried or got angry, or in his case he joined the DEA and made his life’s mission to destroy the man who had killed his best friend. He still missed Moses Archila, he always would. He still thought about the sound of the gun. Waking up in the hospital and knowing his best friend was dead and he could have prevented it was the hardest thing he had ever endured. It was worse than his flesh being burnt off in the roadside explosion, worse than being a prisoner in the Colombian jungle.
The guilt would never leave him but he dealt with it.
Beth wasn’t even dealing, she was ignoring. It was what he expected; it was what she did. At first she surprised him, she cried and shook and swore. She grieved.
And then she shut down; all her emotions were gone, pushed down and turned off. She was ignoring the fact her sister was murdered. But she couldn’t ignore this forever. Eventually it would come out and it would be raw and brutal and ugly and she would have to fight to not be drawn under. But he would be there.
He gently pulled his arm out from under her head, replacing it with a pillow. He crossed the room. He needed to work.
But first he needed to pick up her clothes. He could only smile. The woman was completely incapable of getting clothes is a hamper…or wrappers in the trash. In her defence, she got them close, sometimes within a few inches but she never could fully commit. Lucky for her she had lots of other talents, some of which she had just demonstrated.
Torres put Beth’s shoes beside the closet door and before he reached for her pants. As he folded them, a pamphlet fell out, the cover catching his eye: Helping Your Child Understand Prison, Advice from the California Department of Correction.
Torres took a deep breath. Her dad. She had gone to see her dad. He folded the pamphlet and put it back in her pocket. She didn’t want him to know, so he would pretend he didn’t.
A chirping noise pierced the silence of the inky darkness. On instinct Beth’s hand reached out to silence her alarm but the noise continued. It was too early. And it was Sunday, why was her alarm on?
Beth gave the alarm another hard whack. When that didn’t silence it she gave the cord a hard yank.
“It’s your phone.” Torres’ deep voice was a gravelly whisper. He had been asleep too which meant it really was an ungodly hour. Beth glanced at the clock. She had to squint to make out the numbers: 3:38.
She slid her finger across the screen to accept the call. It was an unknown number. “Thomson,” she said.
“Agent Thomson, this is Detective Jamison from Carrizo Springs.”
“Uh huh,” she murmured. Beth glanced at the clock again. It was too early or too late, either way her brain hadn’t fully engaged. Carrizo Springs. She wasn’t working a case there. She couldn’t even think offhand where it was in relation to her.
“Sorry to bother you at this hour but there is an alert on file that says to contact you when there is anything to do with Los Treintas.”
Beth sat up, giving her eyes a good rub. “Yeah that’s right. Thank you. What is going on?”
“There was an incident tonight. A Border Agent’s house was vandalized. No confirmation yet, but it appears that his wife and children are missing.”
Beth’s heart stopped in her chest.
She shook her head. They weren’t missing.
Beth knew that if they were dealing with Los Treintas, his family was dead and it was only a matter of time before he knew it too. Oh shit…
Beth slid out of bed. “What’s his name?”
“Raul Garcia.”
The name didn’t mean anything to her. “Where is he now?”
“He’s home. Detectives and forensics are there.”
Where were her clothes? She has left them in a pile in the corner of the bedroom. She opened her top drawer and pulled out underwear. He shouldn’t be in his house, but he would want to be there in case his family came home. “Don’t let him pick up any packages. Intercept anything that comes to the house. Do you understand?” Los Treintas always sent the heads of victims to their families as a warning. Raul didn’t need to see that, no one did. Her heart was vibrating now, the beats too close together to discern one from the next. Another hit, just like Paige. Beth closed her eyes and pushed down all the memories from that night. She couldn’t deal with them now.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Send me the address to this number. I’m on my way.”
“What’s up?” Torres was sitting up in bed. She could just make out his form in the darkness.
“Just work. I need to go to Carrizo Springs.” Beth tried to sound nonchalant but her voice wouldn’t cooperate. Thoughts were firing at her, memories, only freshly buried.
“Tonight?”
Beth continued getting dressed. She pulled on a pair of fresh jeans and a T-shirt. “Yeah I shouldn’t be long.” Beth let out a rush of air. “No that’s not true. I don’t know how long it will be.” She considered telling him that there had been another hit but she wouldn’t. Torres was out. He didn’t need to be sucked into it.
No that was a lie. The truth was she needed him to be out. She needed a beacon on shore guiding her back to normality so she didn’t lose herself in this sea of depravity.
“I’ll be back…later.” Beth opened the safe where she kept her gun and slid it into its holster.
It took just over an hour to reach Carrizo Springs. Raul Garcia’s house was on the corner of a main street backing onto a gas station. It was nothing fancy, just a small stucco bungalow on a busy street. If he was on the Zetas or Treintas pay roll, he certainly hadn’t invested the money into the modest house or the old minivan in the driveway with a broken taillight and an exhaust held up with duck tape.
There was a rusted swing set in the yard and two bicycles lying in the grass.
“I’m Special Agent Thomson.” Beth held up her badge for inspection but the officers guarding Garcia’s door merely nodded and made room to let her past.
Beth’s breath caught when she saw the scorpion painted on the door, a dark maroon colour that had already dried and begun to crack. “That’s not spray paint,” she said to no one in particular. “Has it been tested? I need this tested.”
The younger looking of the two officers spoke. “Yes, ma’am, it’s blood.”
Beth nodded. “Human?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said almost apologetically. He was young, still fresh-faced and alert, still eager, not yet beaten down by the job.