“I already do.”
One-Mile wasn’t surprised. After all the abuse she’d endured at Montilla’s compound, she probably trusted no one.
His face softened. “You should start seeing a counselor.”
She recoiled. “I would rather forget.”
“You’re not going to without help. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that.” He didn’t press any more. He wasn’t here to harp on her. “If anything happens, especially if you see Montilla, call me. Day or night.”
Laila nodded. “Thank you. I am glad you are the one who came to move us. It made me feel safe.”
Because he’d had her naked and chosen not to touch her? Probably. He wished he could erase what those assholes had done to her.
“Take care.”
Then he was gone. Once they had unpacked the rental, he’d returned the van, so he took a taxi straight to the airport and finagled a seat on the next flight, which left in less than two hours. After a layover, he would arrive in St. Louis in the wee hours of the morning.
While waiting for his plane to board, One-Mile stared at his phone again. Maybe he could catch Brea at the end of her workday. But when he dialed, no answer. Again. This time he didn’t leave a message. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was going.
With a curse, he hung up, then boarded the aircraft and decided he’d best catch a few hours’ sleep.
Stopping the son of a bitch who’d nearly broken him—without his bosses figuring it out—wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined. Once that was done, he’d go back to Lafayette, find Brea, explain his past and reassure her, then make her his for good.
Thursday, October 30
St. Louis
One-Mile arrived at the safe house just before one a.m. He doubted Montilla had gotten a message yet from EM’s mole, but just in case, he perused the neighborhood. Quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary.
So he crept around the back of the house and let himself in with the key he’d pocketed the day they’d left.
He flipped on a few lights, figuring that if the place was being watched, it would look lived in.
A tornado would have had less impact on the interior. Valeria had only been able to pack for herself and her son what they could fit in a couple of suitcases. Laila hadn’t struggled as much since she’d come with nothing and had acquired very little in a month. But Valeria had passed most of her pregnancy and all of her son’s short life in this house. He knew leaving had been difficult.
Too bad this mission wasn’t about putting everyone out of their misery and ending Montilla. One-Mile didn’t bother lying to himself; he wanted revenge. And if the drug lord were no longer on this planet, his estranged wife could stop looking over her shoulder and fearing for her safety. Laila could finally breathe. Baby Jorge wouldn’t be at risk of growing up without a mother.
But the scumbag wasn’t worth losing his job or risking the wrath of his government. And Brea would be horrified if he intentionally added to his body count, rather than letting the wheels of justice do the job. So, he was going to be a good boy, even though he hated it.
He had a plan and a few hours to kill before Montilla likely showed. Right now was about fortifying this place and getting some rest.
The house didn’t have an alarm system, and even if it had, it would have been some prefab piece of shit a guy like Montilla could easily skirt. So One-Mile got creative.
He opened the pantry and pulled out a dozen cans of soups and vegetables, then scanned the labels. Since airport food was barely edible, he’d skipped it. Now, he set aside some chili, opened the rest of the cans, and dumped their contents down the garbage disposal. Finally, he searched the house until he found a spool of twine and an icepick.
Not perfect, but he’d make it work.
While he heated the chili, he stabbed holes in the empty cans and tied them together. Then he attached a set to the handles of both the front and back doors. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, but if an intruder tried to barge in while he slept, the cans rattling across the tile would serve as an early warning system. Finally, he checked all the windows in the house to ensure they were locked.
While he ate the chili, he scooped up the clothes Valeria had left strewn around and lamented having to leave behind. He tossed them in a big box he found in her closet, then emptied the rest of the baby’s drawers in there, too. Since he had a little bit of space left, he included a couple of pacifiers and a few boxes of baby oatmeal, then taped it all up and shoved it in the back of the car she’d forgone. If he survived, he’d UPS her stuff to Florida. If he didn’t…well, most of Valeria’s things would already be packed for her. She wouldn’t care about his fate.
As One-Mile took his last bite of chili, he glanced around. The place looked a bit more orderly, but tidying the shithole wasn’t his concern. He needed sleep.
He found a roll of wide tape and some thumbtacks in Valeria’s craft room, then stuck the heads of the wide pins to the tape and set a few strips in front of the door to Laila’s bedroom. He’d sleep there since her room had multiple exit points.
Then he double-checked his weapon and drifted off in the dark corner of the house.
The night passed peacefully. So did most of the rest of the next day.
One-Mile ran out to grab some supplies, sent Valeria’s box to Orlando because he was a nice guy, then returned to the house and started preparing for his uninvited visitor’s arrival.
As evening came and went, his tension grew. If dawn came without an appearance from Montilla, he’d have to re-examine his supposition that Trees was the traitor. Until then, he’d operate on the premise that any intruder who wanted to steal stuff broke in during the day; anyone who wanted to kill crept in at night. And he’d act accordingly.
So after ignoring hordes of inconvenient trick-or-treaters, One-Mile turned off the interior lights just before midnight and stuffed pillows under the covers in Valeria’s bed. He snatched an oblong throw pillow off the sofa and set it under one of the remaining baby blankets in the abandoned crib.
If Montilla came, he’d kill Valeria before he took the baby, but on the off chance he wanted to get a look at his son before he offed the boy’s mother, One-Mile would be ready.
Until then…his thoughts turned to Brea. Nothing new from her today. Was she busy at work? Had her father had another relapse? Was she thinking about their last evening together? He wished he knew, but it was too late to disturb her now. And he had to keep focus.
Bathed in darkness and attuned to the still, One-Mile waited. If there was one thing a good sniper needed, it was patience. In the rest of his life, he hated waiting for anything. But when it came to ending scum bags, he could drag that shit out forever as long as it meant bagging his target.
Sure enough, a little after two a.m., he heard the jiggle of the handle at the back door. Figuring that was Montilla’s most likely entry point, he’d taken the string of cans off the knob. No reason to let the enemy know he was onto him.
Instead, he melted into the shadows in the adjacent hall and peeked into the living room. After a little more rattling and a few clicks, the knob turned. The door swept open.
Montilla ducked in—alone.
He glanced at the baby swing and toys in the corner where Valeria had left them, then crept through the family room.