I'm so startled by the setup that this time Foley manages to move faster than I do and he pushes me toward the stairs. I stumble forward. The woman does not come with us. When Foley and I are on the stairs, I hear the mechanism once more and turn to see the cabinets realigning themselves. They snap into position with an audible click and we are plunged into darkness. I almost stumble once more but catch myself. Foley is right behind me and I feel him pause on the stairs while my eyes adjust to the darkness and assume he is waiting for his to do the same. But in a moment, track lighting from above and below blinks on. Miniature incandescent bulbs glow softly along the bottom of each stair step and a fixture on the ceiling lights our way.
That's what Foley was waiting for. With a grunt, he prods me onward.
The stairs are thick wood, uncarpeted, and our footfalls echo in the narrow passageway. There is no handrail. The staircase is steep. I count twenty steps before we come to a landing. There is a door. I put my hand out to open it, and Foley swats it away.
"Careful," he says. "Want to get your head blown off?"
I don't bother to remark on the irony of that statement, seeing as how I imagine that's precisely what Martinez has planned for me.
Foley steps around me. There is a button to the right of the doorknob. Foley pushes it. Two short, two long pulses that translate into muffled buzzes just barely audible on this side. The door must be thick. After a moment, there is a click and the door opens.
Martinez is there to meet us.
CHAPTER 39
I'D SEEN MARTINEZ ONCE BEFORE, SEVERAL months ago, but only at night and from a distance. He'd been wearing a suit then and my impression was of a large, thick-bodied man. Not my impression now. Martinez has lost weight—a lot of it. His scarecrow frame is clad in an open-neck polo shirt hanging loose over jeans. He's barefoot. His dark hair is unkempt, longer than I remembered, curling around the collar of his shirt. It's limp with the oily texture of hair that hasn't been washed in a while.
And it frames a face ravaged by sorrow and madness.
I've seen the look before. On a vampire, not a human. But the effect is the same. I feel my muscles tense, constrict as a rush of adrenaline prepares for a fight.
But Martinez doesn't attack. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Foley's presence.
He stares at me, eyes hollow and devoid of life. His hands hang at his sides, one holds a small black box. A light blinks red. Some kind of detonator? He's so utterly still, it's unnerving. I'm relieved when Foley breaks the intolerable silence.
"Well," he says. "Here she is. When can I get out of here?"
His voice sparks light in Martinez' eyes, drags him back from whatever pit he'd lost himself in. He places the box on the floor beside the door and the red light blinks to green. He glances at Foley with a look that reminds me of the flicker of a snake's tongue before a strike—quick, decisive, deadly. If I were Foley, I'd be getting out now.
But, of course, Foley is not that smart.
"I did what you told me to. She's alive. I'd like my money now. I've got to make plans. The San Diego PD will be on my trail. Can't go back across the border. Your pilot can take me to Mexico City, though, right? I've got a fake passport. I'll go south from there …"
He's rambling on, nervously, just now understanding what he sees on Martinez' face, a man teetering on the knife-edge of reason. Foley backs toward the doorway, hands outstretched in front of him, a vain attempt to ward off whatever Martinez might hurl at him.
Martinez' right hand moves slowly. Foley watches as if mesmerized as it drifts toward the small of his back, reaches beneath the shirt and produces a small gun. Only when the gun is pointed at him does Foley react.
He grabs me and swings me around to shield his own body. "Go ahead," he says. "Shoot. But Max isn't here to watch, is he? Wasn't that the object of this stupid setup? Make Max suffer the way you did? Make him watch while you torture the woman he loves? If you still want that, you're going to have to let me walk out of here. Give me my money and arrange for the pilot to fly me out. Anna will be with me until we get to the chopper. Then I'll let her go and you can have your fun. Do we have a deal?"
All the while he's talking, I'm trying to look behind Martinez, to see if I can spot where Max might be hidden. There are two more doors, one on each side of a narrow hall, but they are both closed. The good thing is that there doesn't seem to be any other guards. I can easily take care of Martinez and Foley. The hard part will be getting Max past that woman downstairs if he's hurt and unable to walk. I have a feeling she knows how to use those guns.
All this passes through my head while Foley is trying to manhandle me backward toward the stairs. Martinez still hasn't said a word. He has the gun pointed at my midsection. It won't kill me if he shoots, but it will hurt. Better to let him take care of Foley, one less bad guy I have to worry about.
I slump forward, letting my body go limp. Foley tries to lower himself with me, scrambling to regain a hold and hoist me up. He can't. My dead weight is too much. He lets me go and stands up, surrendering with upturned hands.
Martinez doesn't hesitate. He fires once. A neat round hole blooms in Foley's forehead.
CHAPTER 40
MY FIRST THOUGHT IS: GOOD, ONE DOWN. Then: I'm glad the bastard is dead. I would have liked to make him explain about what happened in the desert, though. I figure he was afraid Sylvie's ex was going to kill me and he'd be robbed of his extra blood money.
A moot point now.
Martinez rolls Foley away from me. He reaches down and yanks me to my feet, his hands like steel bands on my arms. He's stronger than he looks. When he sees that I've regained my balance, he lets me go.
"Where's Max?" I ask.
A ghastly smile like a skull's rictus touches the corners of his mouth. He turns me toward the door on the left and pushes me forward.
"First," he says, "you must see why you have been brought here."
It's the first time I've heard his voice—gravelly, low pitched. He speaks perfect English, with a barely detectable accent. But this time, the tone is different. It's as scary as his eyes, full of venom and suppressed rage. He is a coil winding tighter with each passing moment. When that energy is released, it will flatten everything in its path.
He steps around to grasp the door handle. Even before the door swings open, though, I know what's inside.
The smell tells me.
Decaying flesh. Blood, long past flowing. Death.
I've smelled it before.
He blocks my way until he is inside. He wants to watch my reaction.
I steel myself. When he steps aside, I force myself to look.
There are four bodies on cots. A woman, three children. The woman looks to be in her midthirties. The children are stair steps, a boy about ten, a girl about eight, another boy, maybe six. I smell formaldehyde. Not professional embalming, the stink of decay is strong. But the bodies have been washed and dressed so the ravages inflicted on them are unseen. Except for the solitary bullet holes in each of their foreheads.
Max is not among them. A little thrill of relief races down my spine.
Martinez is staring at me. He misinterprets the shudder. "You are right to tremble. You see what they did to my family?" He steps to the woman, touches her swollen face with his fingertips. "I was to bring them here. They would have been safe. But I was betrayed before I could. Traitors in my own organization betrayed me." His eyes find mine. "Your friend betrayed me. He brought them to my home. And this is the result."
He circles the cots. "They were rounded up like animals. They "were brought outside and shot down like dogs in the street. Shot in the head so there could be no open casket, the final desecration. They were left to rot in the sun."